(Thoughts from a solo raft trip down the Colorado River in Grand Canyon)


Rafting alone defined: Exultation laced with abject terror
Outrageous risk-taking
An acquired taste

Art defined: Res Ipsa Loquitur


There was a newswire that came across the screen, something about winter test launches. Paid it no mind. My desk was piled high as usual, and besides, I went down this summer on a short run with some California friends who waited twelve years for their turn. It was the first time in 37 trips to go down the river, just for fun, with my own friends. It was a first rate float, but no time for photography.

I was cataloging negatives from previous journeys, when a middle age panic attack sunk into my gut. I’m getting proficient with the old view camera, but with new rule changes and increased demand on the user day pool, this artist is getting locked out of his studio. Locked out of a chosen profession. Locked out of a way of life since 1973. Time to get down the river and shoot a few frames. It’s been two and a half years now, and the permit system is not going my way. Artists whine a lot don’t they.

Got hold of A.J. at the river unit, and he says that all the test dates are gone except one for November 13, two weeks away. No one wanted to get a trip together that quickly, and so it went unclaimed. I said I would think about it and get back to him. After whittling down the work pile and talking it over with my wife, the decision was made to load up and go. A.J. and I fax back and forth for a couple days, and the deal is done. 4x5 b&w sheet film arrives overnight courier and is loaded into the holders. Cameras cleaned, and lens shutters calibrated. The seeds of solo raft trip number six have been sown. It will be a long haul through a hard winter to launch Gato Azul on the appointed date. The Admiral be damned, full speed ahead!

A tearful goodbye to my lovely wife, and now the drive, Louisville to Lees Ferry. It’s a good start. Off at 6 am, up to St. Louis, across the mighty Miss, past the big arch and on to Kansas City, beef capitol of the world. Don’t care much for chain restaurants, so I peel off the interstate and into Ogallah, Kansas, and a local diner. There’s a bunch of pickups outside so the food is probably okay, and besides, I drive a pickup.


I pull up a chair, order a lunch plate and notice the joint has an old jukebox, complete with black plastic 45’s. Man, you don’t see that every day of the week. Waitress says it works so I drop in some quarters. There was an interesting mix of Rock n’ Roll and Country Western to play. I was about to push a few buttons, when there was a tap on my shoulder. I turn, and find a big square jawed, broad shouldered cowboy type of guy, complete with a missing front tooth and a freshly pressed/starched, three crease cop style long sleeve shirt with genuine imitation mother-of-pearl snap buttons. He looked the part because he is the part.

He says, “You ain’t gonna play any a that Bee-Bop-A-Loo music are you?”

I says back, “Well, uh, Country Western is fine, uh, no problem.”

“Good,” he remarks, and sits back down.

I play some Johnny Paycheck, Merle Haggard, and Peggy Lee, finish lunch, and quietly move along. Man, that was an odd exchange.

Perfect winter travel weather, no wind, bright sun, shadows of birds in flight on the highway out front. Unlike me, they are heading for warmer climate. Across the land of Oz and into the Rockies, and they are quite a sight. Snow covered and luminous. Up and over to Glenwood Springs before the next storm, and into the Hampton Inn. Woke up to a 40mph west wind and blowing snow. It would be possible to make the Ferry by sundown from here, but doesn’t seems worth the harassment. Hang out at the steaming vapor caves instead, and leave at noon when the weather breaks.

Arrive at the bridge at Marble Canyon around 10 pm. Found a nice flat piece of sandstone to drop over the side, and started walking that way with it. There was a group of fire worshipers there at one of the new visitor center fireplaces, having a few drinks. After cruising to the middle of the bridge, over she goes, 472’ down and SMACK, as the rock hits the river below. Walking back by the party, they were curious, so I told them I could tell how high the water was running by how long it took the rock to hit. They humored me, but I don’t think they bit.

I wake up my buddy Ken (Park maintenance genius), and get settled in for the evening. Whew, what a drive. Glad to be here. Next morning we go bother some locals, Shirlene, Colin, Dave, Ray, Steve, Greg, Maggie, and Charlie et al, and put together a burger cookout the next evening. These folks have the greatest place in the world to live, and they know it.

Went down to the ramp to talk with a trip rigging out, and looked up at the sediment- survey cable car tower. You know, in all these years, I have never been up there. Well why not. I stroll over to the tower, climb the ladder past the sign that says it’s a federal crime to go up there, then on up to the top. Pretty nice view, and quiet too. Good place for a picnic. Ken drives by in the Park truck and shouts, “Hey, what are you doing up there?” “Breaking the law,” I reply. “Carry on,” he says back.


Day Minus Two - It’s time to rig. By 9am the sun gives way to blowing sleet and rain. Rime ice builds on my shoulders and back. Cold wet hands and feet have little feeling or function. It’s a major effort just to thread a strap. Sheesh, this trip is in trouble all of a sudden. No frostbite yet, I still know what day it is, so on with it.

Ken drove down to the ramp and told me that David Brower died today. We stood, backs against the driving sleet, looking at each other, waiting for the other man to say something. There was only silence. I thanked him for the news, and grudgingly went back to work. Darkness comes and it’s time to quit, although the rig is far from finished.

On up to the top for a long hot shower. Ken and Shirlene feed me hot soup in front of the fireplace. They allow me to nod off to sleep on the floor in warm comfort. I get up a few hours later and proclaim that I should go stay with the vessel. A big part of my life is down there, and it needs looking after. Into the tent by nine and off to sleep, but not for long.

About 10:30pm headlights strafe the tent and wake me. Probably just a fisherman. No, it is a pickup truck loaded with three pathetically drunk women. They drive down the rig area close to the river, get out, laugh, stagger about, then squat and urinate. Then they saddle up and slowly drive over to the launch ramp, then down it, INTO the river, right up to the gunnels. Passenger rolls down the window, figures out where they are and shouts at the driver, “You stupid f---ing bitch!! You drove into the river! Do something! Back up! You’re in the river! Gawd, you stupid f----ing bitch! Get out of here!” Driver opens the door to investigate, and the river rushes in. There is much high pitched shrieking as icy water hits their legs, and then more cussing. Driver does finally manage to get it into reverse and she hits it full throttle. The tires spin at breakneck speed as acrid blue smoke rises to the heavens in the calm night air.

Once up on flat ground, they opened the car doors and water poured out of the cab, onto the ramp, and back down to the river. I’m over in the shadows, about to explode with laughter. Better stay quiet lest I get attacked by hoary amazons. Much more cussing now, a struggle, some face-slapping, then off they go, pounding over a couple of the concrete barriers in the parking lot. Back to sleep now, hoping for no further jolts in the night.

Day Minus One - Awoke to a clear sky and freezing air. Get final rigging done, and head to Page for the last bit of food and ice. Vessel battened down clean and solid. Gato Azul is ready. So am I. Flows are looking good, 12-17 with 9 on the weekends. That’s twice normal, and Paria Creek is running cold and clear. Thank you W.A.P.A. No, strike that, I don’t thank them for anything.

Upstream of the Ferry is duck hunting season, so all the smart ducks are down here with me where shooting isn’t permitted. Trout guys are crowded in up there too. Some of them are ex river guides (like me). It feels better going the other way. A last supper with friends, then back to the ramp to sleep. I leave the boat anchored out so it will be floating after the river drops overnight.

Day One - Ken and Ray come to say goodbye, and now I am alone. Off the beach, into the current, and under the wire. I blow a big note on the Bahamian conch horn, signaling departure, and I am off. This journey is underway. Splendid!

Impishly I smile. The Canyon is mine! Mine to succeed in or fail, to live in or die. Balanced on the edge, in pursuit of adventure. It is pure ecstasy which, once in awhile, translates into a decent photograph.

Under the bridge, past ten mile rock, diving deep into the cliff walls. Run Frick and Frack rapids with no problem. Drift, row, tweak rig, and into the Supai Narrows. So sublime, and seen only from the river. A tear of joy for its sheer beauty. It’s a cobalt blue sky through polarized revos, set against the sienna rock. Pull in at the desert-dancer, river right, for a photo. That one has never come out well, but maybe this time.

I park on the left at mile eighteen, Flailing Oars Rapid, and give it a scout. Hmm, looks big down there. Untie, into the tongue, pull hard to the right for all I’m worth, and miss the china holes down below. I often muff it here, but today the run is adequate. A small program note: I never had much respect for other people’s names for rapids. So except for a few I like, I make up my own.

A landfall at North Canyon, change clothes, and quickly scurry up the canyon to survey the scene. I have shot here many times, and tomorrow, I will again. Dinner in the dark. Cold out, freezing again. The sound of the rapid drowns out the ring still left in my ears from the world above. Sleep well, dream well.

Day 2 - Up the canyon with cameras in tow. All the plunge pools are full and clear. The air is calm and it’s a superb opportunity for imaging. I shoot a few frames, then lay down to relax awhile, waiting for a change of light, and nod off for a bit. The sinuous sexual beauty of this place is more than visual. It is a beautiful woman who caresses me whenever I am here.

Pack up the cameras and back to the beach. Some trout are angled to shore for dinner and breakfast, then fuss with the boat, and re-arrange some gear. First two days are a layover. Nice way to start. Oh man, a condor up high, playing the thermals. Great sight! The good binoculars came along this time, and it’s already paying off.

Absolutely dark by 6pm. Sunrise about 6:30. Can’t sleep twelve hours, so I burn some battery and read on Hemmingway’s “Islands in the Stream.” Good grief, it’s only 8pm. Going to be well rested this trip.

Day 3 - Up around 6:30 and shoot some moonset shots from camp. An escape from the beach at 10:30 this morning after photographs. Skies clear and no wind. River running about 9k, and the 20’s roar mightily at these flows. Sloppy run at 24 mile rapid, cuz I ran it right. Hehe, live and learn. Otherwise, good fun in the froth. Marble Canyon is a real joy. All those solution caves, and not a problem in sight.

Stop in at the rockslide there at Camp Shinumo. This rock fall mangled the rocket box from our groover last summer, and the box is still there. Should bring a crow-bar next time and pry that thing out of the canyon. Just down stream a ways, there are more rocks falling, but couldn’t see it. Suits me not to be that close to it anymore. In fact, It scares me. Spot a bald eagle near Vasey’s, and another two miles later.

Fabulous day, although not many miles. Predicted storm never shows, but I suppose I’m ready. I pull in to a beach with a nice overhang just in case. A stark, clear sky displays all the stars. With failing vision, the Milky Way just looks milkier though. Binoculars clear things up pretty good.

The wind is picking up, it’s getting cold, and the water is rising. Simultaneous, but unrelated events. All require some sort of response. A busy thing, these solo trips. They don’t give you enough days to do it really. More trout to eat, then on to the tent.

Day 4 - Off by 8:30, not bad for winter. There’s a brisk tail wind this morning. Believe I’ll set the spinnaker. You know, with all the ammo-can beach cameras, pink flagging, photogrammetry targets, instruments and such down here, I got to thinking, how about some art? I will leave a few prints here and there for others to enjoy, or cuss. Who better to see them than fellow boatmen and canyon travelers? Is it art, science, or trash? Interesting about who decides what can be left in the Canyon.

While drifting by the old Marble Canyon dam-site, I come to terms with the death of David. I pull out the conch horn and play its glorious bright note. The resonant decay of sound from the cliffs is long and beautiful, as will be my memories of David Brower. I bow my head in reverence to a man who fought so hard. The man who kept a dam from being built at this very spot. Warm thoughts for a quiet warrior on this cold winter day.

Pass by a known willow flycatcher roost. Glad not to see a gaggle of flycatcher watchers, and the usual amount of shrapnel scattered about. There are hundreds of vacant old Anasazi homes between Lees Ferry and the gorge. I try and visit a few different ones each time. There are many curious lithics scattered about at these places. I don’t know what they all mean, and don’t want to be spoon fed the answers. It’s easy to appreciate the dignity and creativity of their lives, by admiring the things they left behind. Some of it can only be called one thing, fine art.

Three Canada Geese honk at me from a sparkling sand beach. Sounds of home. They are all about in Kentucky. Snow on cliffs at Nankoweap down to 500’ above the river. An early winter, as each in the corridor is keenly aware.

Pull in to camp river right, just above the LCR confluence. There are a number of folks on the beach across the street. Probably chub researchers. Now there is the mother-lode of research projects in the Grand Canyon. It employs hundreds and costs millions. And what a fabulous fish. This one can alter hydro-electric policy, frighten large cities, and possibly de-commission the dam. Research river trips, what a life eh? Nice work if you can get it.

Listen, don’t tell anyone, but I have been quietly borrowing mated pairs of endangered Humpback Chubs from the LCR for a captive breeding program in our pond back home. Given a little warm water, these fish propagate like rabbits! This was all approved by Dept. of Interior of course. And get this, the Orientals pay five times as much for humpback cartilage, as they do for shark fins. I’m cashing in! With each humpback cartilage sold, one less shark is taken. Save the shark. Enrich the Bruce.

Day 5 - A whitewater kind of day. I pull in right to scout the rock garden. At 15k could run right or left. I take it right. Would rather eat water than rock I suppose. Big waves, no problem, good run, great fun. The first of the triple crown is behind me. The canyon tightens up. The river muscles its way through resistant schist, and the mill race is on. At this flow, it will be rowdy.

Cheat Sock left as always, and run Boom-Shaga-Laga right down the gut. Bitchin’ whitewater, but I’m starting to get a chill. Truth is, it’s colder than I thought it would be. Wet hands and feet are giving me grief. My kingdom for proper winter gear. Always something to learn in case of a “next” time.

There’s a few photo ops into the gorge, but light levels are too low to be shooting on the move. Disappointing. In the summer, there is enough light, even in the shade. Oh well, going to be a tripod kind of trip. Run into a group at Cremation. I am ahead two days, but will slow up for fluted schist photographs between here and Bass Camp.

Man, the stars are great here in the Canyon. Surely there are other creatures out there, but like us, probably few of them leave the neighborhood. I wonder if the other planets have a canyon as good as this one? Failing intergalactic travel this place will do nicely.

Day 6 - Stop in at Phantom and meet Amy, Trip Leader of the permit I caught up to. They are all guides on the Ocoee and Chatooga Rivers, and offer to back me up on the big ones coming. Kind offer indeed.

Finally found Warren, Manager there at the Ranch. Missed the last two times I’ve been through. He sells me some stores, we discuss art, and I give him a few photos. He and his wife are retiring from Phantom and moving on to other things in Prescott. Best wishes my friend. Paul in maintenance is gone too. I will miss them both.

I make a few phone calls, but only get recorders. Off by eleven and deeper into the gorge. The decision is made not to wait for the others. Stop to scout Hornblender, and split the horns in this high water. No reason to look at TorqueMeister, so I just run it and get beat up real proper. Wave number five at RollerCoaster stops the boat, turns it sideways, and pummels the oarsman. I know how those surfer dudes feel when their timing is a little off. How much longer can these trips be done safely? Camp at Crystal Creek.

Well look upstream, here comes the Ocoee Tribe. Surely they won’t run the rapid at this late hour. Amy offers to feed me dinner for a double camp, and in they come. Salmon steaks, hot steaming vegetables, and dessert, oh my. They opted for a professional food pack and a couple rafts. And a nice warm fire every night too. Man, what a treat.

Day 7 - I get up early and put together bacon, eggs, and this witches brew of coffee- tea-cocoa for the thermos. The others are late sleepers and so I am ready to run “Raucous” by 9am after a thorough scout. They all gather up above to watch the proposed rumble run right. I cut across the tongue, disturb some mossy rocks, turn and square up to those waves just past the gaping hole. It worked, and I knew ten seconds in that it would be a good run. There was some cheering and hooting from the shore behind me. The support was appreciated.

From here to six miles further down is the most primeval place I have ever been. The magnificent old rock forms lure me to shore for some imaging. The clan floats by about an hour later. They had good runs and everyone is okay. Now alone with the place once again. Time to call it a day on river right, just short of 104 mile. Not a regular camp, but good for me.

Staying overnight in any of the schist gorges is a pleasure. The water moves through with speed and authority. The flutes are a sculptural result of spring flood through the eons. What a furious communion of water and rock. They are a fabulous and challenging subject to shoot and I am glad to be here among them.

Standing on the back of the boat I break into “The Star Spangled Banner,” in I presume, a patriotic moment. I can’t sing, but it sounds good off the walls here. I go on for awhile, humming excerpts from favorite symphonies. And, and, play the recorder for awhile. Sometimes the music takes over.

After reading about the history of photography over the years, there seems to be an interesting common thread, classical music. Most large-format b&w artists are either classically trained in music, or astute in their appreciation of it. With symphony, the composer commits thoughts to a score, then the score is performed by an orchestra. The photographer commits vision to a negative (score), and the print is the “performance” of the negative. No two performances are ever quite the same, in music or photography. But in this large-format b&w game, there is another common thread. Most of those folks in the history books were quite well to do, and had little need to work for a living. Wonder why the books left that part out? Aye, to be rich…….

Another sterling clear sky all day. No clouds about. Evening lows around 25-30, and highs (short-lived) around 40-45. Wind blows back and forth from maybe 3-10 knots, averaging about 4, all day all night. Water level wanders between 12k and 15k, and it’s a nice flow to row. And that’s the situation on the river here in late November, 2000. No cooking tonight, just grazing.

Day 8 - Slow drift down to Bass Camp. The Ocoee tribe is there for a layover and they invite me in. Tripod and camera are set up for a photo later tonight. It’s a lazy relaxing afternoon in the sun. Even just an hour of sun makes all the difference. The absence of a zoo atmosphere, and the red ants of summer is a welcome reality. We have a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, and there is much to be thankful for tonight. The overall quality of their self-outfitted float trip through the Park is impressive. In fact, the public trip through Grand Canyon has improved tremendously the past ten years. An encouraging trend.

But I can’t say that I like those new Russian Olive trees I’ve been getting snagged on lately. The Russians are coming! The Russians are........ This insidious invasion will no doubt be flanked by an eager and aggressive re-veg team, requiring a plethora of river trips, millions of dollars, and resulting in increased corridor constipation. They will probably try and import exotic bugs or mold or something hostile to the tree (and who knows what else), to get rid of the infestation. Remember Kudzu? Africanized bees? Stripped Bass? James Watt? Brings a tear, que no?

Here’s an idea. Issue a 30 day river permit to a knowledgeable group from the self-outfitted public twice a year. Once in the spring, then the fall. Give them machetes, bow saws, and a bushel of bandaids. I guarantee there won’t be a Russian Olive anywhere along the river more than six inches high! And it won’t cost the taxpayer one thin dime. So there, Mr./Ms. bigshot scientist, a low-tech solution to an irritating problem. And cheap.

Have reached the section of the Canyon where I intend to slow a bit and burn some film. The low light levels are pesky, but the weather is clear and the winds light. Dampness has crept into all the photo gear, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it. Maybe it could be dried out some if a warm sunny place could be found.

Day 9 - Down to Elves for a few shots. Amy’s bunch comes in too, and we enjoy this gem together. Onward ho, the schist and sandstone are right at river level now, and it’s quite attractive. So many new things I’ve seen this time. A float down the Colorado is always that way. Long ago photography in the corridor became a life commitment, and there is plenty to shoot.

Pull in for camp just below Blacktail on the left. I share this beach with polished cobbles, sinouous driftwood, and a coarse kind of ocean sand. Never been here before and I like it. Bighorn all around. It has been overcast all day. Guess that sun couldn’t last forever. And there comes a blazing fiery red-orange sunset.

Day 10 - Wolf down breakfast and make a hasty break from camp. Light came a little earlier than expected to Conquistador. Pile up everything on boat, but no tie-down. Float around corner and set up for a shot. The window comes, displays, and is over in twenty minutes. Whew, got a few frames notwithstanding. All gear put away proper, on with the drysuit, and shove off around 10:30.

There would be only a couple hours to shoot flutes in Spectre, so I pull up short of it just below Fossil Canyon, and a warm sunny beach. Ahh, it’s about time I found one like this. Off with the drysuit, liner, polypro, everything, and scamper around camp for a few hours. Water is heated for clothes washing. Then again for a bath, and once more for a shave. Oh mercy, what a fine afternoon. First time to be warm all trip. Sun stays until 3:30.

I take a little hike up behind camp and return to find some ethafoam pecked away from a cooler by the local ravens. They also removed a section of padding from my crash helmet, and left it neatly on top of the dry box to find. Although mischievous, they are not malicious. Cook the first of three big fat prime ribs. Maybe half tonight, half tomorrow, and a side of smoky beans, and a pear from the Lonely Dell. Best pears I’ve ever eaten and they come right there from the Ferry. Only six miles today. Slowing down nicely. It’s the Blacktail area, so vessel is anchored out a ways.

Day 11 - Leisurely out of camp and downstream for some more flute photography. Low light levels prevent most of the attempts, even at 800 asa. Middle Gorge rapids big and fun.

Drift by the beach at Stone Creek. Pitiful. Not much left of this once spectacular locale. Nothing new. Many of the beaches here in ‘73 are now completely gone. The rest are slowly disappearing, due to the dam at Lake Powell. So many remarkable places, sadly washed away, like tears in rain.

There’s a new moon tonight, and a clear dark sky with a few falling stars here and there. At least they can’t dam that up. I shuffle off to bed, wondering if the sand I’m standing on will be here the next time. With population beyond sanity, living in a place like this is no longer allowed. But the visit is a welcome respite. Sometimes I wish I were a bird, or lizard, or a Hopi, or something.

Day 12 - A no-cook breakfast and it’s across the street to Deer Creek to pump water and shoot pictures. The clan laid over at Tappeats and came on in directly. We all left about lunch and both of us wanted Kanab for the evening. After some negotiation, I got it, and fairly, since they had Tappeats for two days.

Glorious Kanab camp. It is a b&w photographers’ paradise. I layover here always. I hit the beach and walk briskly for a couple of hours, checking sun angles, scouting camera locations, and taking light readings. Oh man, it’s looking great. Hoping now for a couple of days good weather.

Day 13 - Up early this morning, and all bundled up in my chair with a cup of hot cocoa. It’s still quite dark and the roar of the rapid is good company. One at a time, the stars disappear and it’s time for another day. When light comes, I find that the local mice have boarded the boat and chewed a hole in the drybag and drysuit. Testament to my aroma I suppose. I trap the little shits and throw them into the river, hoping they enjoy their new home in the sun downstream. Where’s one of those rattlers when you need it?

Morning light racing down the cliff walls. Could be a photo opportunity. Could be a bath opportunity if it hits camp. Kanab overlook. It is a promontory reaching up sharply into the clear blue morning sky. The camera is setup. With filters, the blue sky will become jet black against the sun lit walls. The big Pentax is used instead of a view camera for this kind of scene. Light changes by the minute, sometimes seconds, and it will require a lot of frames.

Dammit! Roll film pops out of camera and falls to the sand. Oh well, maybe only the last frame or so damaged. Fingers are a mess from the river. Have lost that light touch. Morning shots done then across creek to the big sand dune, grasses, and prickly-pear to finalize locations for an afternoon try. Three setups within probably an hour.

Equipment is moved over after lunch, and set up for a sand dune shot. Finally the sun comes through a narrow slot on the South Rim, and holds for about 30 minutes. Time enough. There may be something here, but the darkroom will tell the story. One more shot of a tree and some cactus, then back to camp.

Nice not having to schlep all that gear on and off the boat today. Took a warm mug of cocoa to sip while reading in bed. Knocked it over sometime in the night. Ack, what a mess. More stupid human tricks.

Day 14 - Up early of course, and into Kanab Canyon. It’s boulder hopping and creek fording with 50 pounds to carry, and only sandals to walk with. Better not twist an ankle back in here. Would be a long, long wait for rescue, if it ever came at all. Arrive at backpackers camp about 3 miles in. Whisper Falls is not my destination today.

Time to sit, wait, and relax. I know what is coming. This part of the canyon has sweeping s-turns, and is resplendent with surprising light. You wouldn’t think this late in the year sun would ever get that far down, but it does. And here it is! I grab the camera and tripod, and it’s off to the races. Running back and forth for about 20 minutes, shooting here and there, and then the light is gone. The adrenaline wears off, and the cold sets in again.

Whew. That was an intense half hour. I can’t remember a kodak-moment this wild since picking up a camera. Man, here I am, buzzing aimlessly around like a mosquito, having the time of my mid-life. God I love this place. Back to camp by 4:30, and truly exhausted.

More fiery western sunset skies. It must be a real show in the Mojave. Another real show are the pictures by Ed Weston from around there. They are still the best ever done. Makes sense. There’s still no one better than him to grace a view camera. Took me about 20 years to figure that out. Ansel Adams was good, damn good, but not as good as Weston. It’s cold, it’s dark, I’m full of food, and it’s time for bed.

Day 15 - On the water by nine. Time to go rafting! The current is swift through here, so no rowing, and lot’s of sightseeing. The creek in Olo is running pretty good. No camp there anymore. When there was a camp eight years ago, it is where I met my wife. I look fondly upon the place.

Matcatamiba is today’s mark. A photo there, lunch, and an easy drift to Ledges Camp. A hike up above the travertine reveals nothing real exciting, but I always wanted to go up there. View from the kitchen is extraordinary however, and it’s a quiet neighborhood. Another party comes in late and camps upstream. They might have been expecting this one. Would be theirs had I known their proximity.

Last prime rib sizzled and the cooler is still heavy with six blocks of ice, just like they looked at the store. Unbelievable. Never had ice not melt on a river trip in the desert. Getting into stripped bass country now. Could chill a few down for dinners. Although, about half the time there’s a carp on the hook instead of bass. An ichthyo friend, Chuck Minkley, caught a 78 lb. carp in their nets below Separation one day. Had to be one gawd awful big ugly fish. They named it Colonel Lipps.

Pack up the kitchen tonight for an early hike up Havasu tomorrow. There’s a real good looking tree up from the motor-pools that begs to be photographed. Never have been able to catch the right light.

Only made eight miles today. Will have to pick it up below Whitmore.

Day 16 - Off at 8am. No breakfast. Stop in at a little wash and shoot some dried mud. Got to wear sunglasses for about 10 minutes. Looking forward to life below Toroweap, where the sun commeth a little longer.

Drift on by Havasu, hoping to make Cove (tree picture will have to wait). Will put me into camp by dusk with luck. Rafting in the dark if not. Speaking of rafting in the dark, this friend of mine ran Lava Falls in the dark with a full moon out one summer evening. A real hairball move, n’est pas?

So much left to photograph, but I’m running out of days. A big Monarch butterfly drops in to hang out on one of the blue dry-bags. Nice color contrast. Make Cove camp by four to my surprise. Current running good at these moderate flows. Sun on the beach until 4:30. Ate last of the beef, and that will be it for the tyranny of frozen meat, and cooking for that matter. Fine with me. Maybe I shouldn’t spend so much time on food anyway. Time to retire to my trusty camp chair.

No wind, crescent moon, clear sky, stars bright. Hearing the rush of water, with eyes closed, there in front of me is the bow of a gaff-rigged ketch on a broad reach, rising with the swell, and well into the trades. The Pacific Rim is calling. The voices of Rapanui. Paul Gauguin territory. I remember “Preussen,” a five-masted barkentine. The greatest sailing ship ever built. San Francisco to Lisbon, around the Horn in 89 days. 6,000 horse power in her canvas, and averaging 14 knots under the press of sail. What an elegant and incredible sight it must have been. Born too late to see her. Born too late to see Glen Canyon too, but right on time to row this river. Aye mate, I am but a boatman. Rivers and oceans are much the same to me. We dance and sing together. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with friends. Always in harmony.

Day 17 - Special day today. One I’ve been waiting for all trip long. It’s time for Bruce’s bigwater sweatlodge. All the necessary ecoutrements are here and I get going after breakfast. Local leaves, twigs, and flowers are gathered and stewed into an aromatic broth, to pour on the hot rocks. Floorless tent set up out of the wind and sealed with sand around the edges to keep the draft out. Small pit dug and lined with hot dry sand. Paco pad in place. Rocks gathered and slowly heated on the propane stove. Lodge ready. Time for my religion.

It is easy to see why the old ones indulged in this simple and immense pleasure. As the steam rises from my body outside the tent, there is a peaceful view of things. I feel good, strong, and alive. No better place to be right now. After awhile, I get too hot and jump into the river, then run back to the lodge, belloring like a striped ape! This is repeated a few times and the rocks reheated, this time with some 3 hour Duraflame Easytime Colorlogs. Maybe it will be faster than propane.

This was the best day off I’ve had in years. Didn’t burn any calories, and so don’t seem hungry for dinner. Maybe a moon shot if clouds blow over. River still pretty clear, all the way down here. Unusual. Wind becomes cold early. I stay bundled up outside for as long as I can take the cold, then off to tent for another 12 hours.

Day 18 - Leave Cove around 10:30 and chase the sun until noon. Found a dry sand beach with good light ‘till 3:30. Aired out and de-sanded everything. This place not a group camp, but perfect for me. It was a four mile day. Trout and channel cat for dinner. Tasty indeed.

Tomorrow, it is time to face the big one. The Falls. No one behind for days probably. And I will be alone with it one more time. Haven’t given it much thought until now. Haven’t needed to. I have a friend Chris, who guides with Sleight. He says that running Lava Falls is like riding a bull, except longer. That’s the best one I’ve heard yet. Well, I wish he were here. I wouldn’t mind the safety, and I enjoy his company.

Lava is a seething hissing cauldron of rogue waves, sharp drops, and fast water. I am fearful of it. Well, maybe not that. Maybe it is just respect, bordering on fear. No matter, it is time to come to grips with what lies ahead. You can only be in it for a few seconds, but it’s a thrill of a lifetime. I have run it 36 times right side up. Tomorrow, it will be 37, one way or another. It will always spit a boat out the other end, unless it ends up in the strainer far right. A dory went in there one day. Boatman jumped clear, but the vessel was shortly reduced to splinters as it crashed its way through.

It is the rite of passage on a Grand Canyon float trip. Before boating, I ran it four times one day! Well more to the point, I was a passenger. I hiked down the Toroweap route to the river one summer in the seventies, and caught a ride through with four different trips that came by. Two motor-rigs, a row company, and a public trip. It was this experience that led me to find a way down the river. Now I am here again, twenty-five years later. There is a flagon of rum somewhere amongst all this gear, but it remains sealed. Maybe a wee sip below the Falls tomorrow would be okay.

Day 19 - A pleasant early morning row, and a tie-up river left. Up to the top of the wash, and it comes into full view. It’s big all right. I wag the cameras past the scout point and shoot a few frames. The opening hydraulics could flip any row-rig, and this cat-boat seems diminutive. All boats in the ocean seem small. All boats in this rapid seem the same. Back to the boat after a few photographs, then a final rig down, nice and tight. Gato Azul looks good. A low lean rafting machine, ready for the brawl.

It’s a long slow scout from the shore, right at the waterline, moving high occasionally to get a look at the opening salvo. Marker rocks and tongue lines are noted. I’m pretty sure I can hit the left slot, but need to be on the edge of the shelf for best entry. Dicey. We all know the consequences of a shelf run. Back to the vessel.

Flow about 12k. Winds freshen to 20-25 knots, and gusting higher. The wind. One more thing to factor in. A nervous row out into the current, and it’s showtime! Stern placed over the little waves in the left tongue, good, now square up, and here comes the acceleration. Entry fine, and we rise up, over, and down into the souse hole at ledge edge. Vessel slams into the first hydraulic and is stopped dead, turned 45 degrees, and up come the left tubes. I leave the oars and high-side. Oh Christ, almost over, and the next wave comes full abeam. Standing up now, pushing against a flip. She comes down hard, and we are running the rest of this thing backwards. Right oar out of commission. Big boy flip waves at the bottom coming up fast. I push on the left oar with both arms to get stern lined up. Come on baby, come on around. Push-e-le, push-e-le. Get! On! Around! Dammit!! Didn’t crash into them dead square, but good enough to flush on past the cheese-grater rock, and we’re out. Holy smokes, she’s still right side up!

Hard to really enjoy the run when it gets that rough. Notwithstanding, it was another peak life experience branded into my memories. Another solo run of a world renowned rapid, and I am more relieved than words to be below it.

I stop at the usual lunch spot below the springs to shake out the jitters. Ha! I’m an adrenaline junky. The wind rips and I only stay long enough to leave a note with Expeditions’ mailbox. A sip of that rum now, then onward, with no more angst about whitewater. Time to relax again.

The basalt walls between Prospect Canyon and Whitmore are some of the most striking natural structures to be found anywhere. I have yet to photograph them well, but one of these days... Tailwind plus high water takes me down the road a little too quick, so I let the boat eddy out whenever it wants to. I savor this stretch of river. It is Grand Canyon at its finest. Shoot a few frames on the move, but it will be grainy film to print from.

Pull into a no name spit of virgin sunny sand for camp. Every mammal and bird in the area has left footprints here. And why not, we all like to play in the sun at the beach. These small places are great. Kitchen 10’ from the boat, tent 5’ from the kitchen. Logistics man.

‘Twas a full and robust day of river running. No two ever the same. As I lay in the sack, I am becoming aware of the pains from today’s street fight. At age 50, it’s an increasingly uncomfortable part of the game. I have to laugh at myself sometimes for doing these trips, but not too hard tonight. Took a shot to the ribs, probably from that right oar, and it hurts to laugh.

Day 20 - Wind blew in some overcast skies. No rain/snow yet, but it’s looking that way. Just above Parashant is a particularly quiet stretch, so I blow some notes on the conch horn. The surround sound reflections are deluxe. The best ones yet. Can this be recorded?

Quiet day, storm never came. Good light plays mid morning as clouds clear. The rapid at 205 a big splash. “Little Bastard” rapid is more like Little Bo Peep at 12k. Settle in at Pumpkin Springs late, after an easy going drift. Notice the beginnings of “Toelio.” Nothing much to do about it. No way to keep feet dry. Six days left to Pierce, and running out of film as usual. Just got to thinking, the poons haven’t been pumped since leaving Lees Ferry. They are just about as tight as launch day. Never seen anything like it. The folks at AIRE built me a good one.

At dusk, three orange contrails appear overhead in tight formation, just under mach speed I’d say. Fighters inbound to Nelles AFB. The sounds of freedom. It reminded me of a hike up around Cogwells Butte one afternoon. An F-4 Phantom came screaming down the Canyon at eye level. A split second later came the jet blast. Ho brother, what an incredible sight! It was around the corner and gone in five seconds, with nothing left but the ring in my ears and the smell of burned jet fuel. It really startled me. I’m glad they don’t do that anymore. The Whitmore choppers are quite enough.

Day 21 - Little pieces of someone else's trash are picked up, and the sand poofed out real nice around camp. I try to leave no trace, but it’s mainly so the Sheriff can’t track me. A few morning photographs and I’m off. Another clear sky day and calm winds. That makes about 18 of those this trip. Been real lucky that way, and thankful not to have any more like that one hellish day at the launch ramp.

Faceted walls of basalt sit atop stately walls of sandstone, with accents of barrel and ocotillo cactus. If I were an architect, I would find inspiring design potential along this river. High cirrus mares tails sweep the sky. I shoot a few frames through a rose filtered lens. These skies often portend stormy weather.

An easy going drift down to Diamond Creek. I’ve a few Hualapai boatmen friends, and stop in to see if anyone is around. King Louie and I like to swap stories. Haven’t seen him in a few years. Some kind of a tourist van rumbles down the road my direction, so I shove off, run the rapid, and settle into a spit of sand down below for the evening.

Now into the third, and possibly most spectacular of the schist gorges. And so ends the upper portion of the permit, but there is plenty more to go. I never, never, ever take out at Diamond Creek.

Day 22 - It’s about five degrees warmer here in the Mojave, and that helps. Drop in to Travertine Falls to admire the garnet crystals. No one has been pecking at them recently, so maybe it’s back to being a secret. On with the current, and there are flutes everywhere. The most fun I’ve ever had in 232 mi. rapid. A little piece of sun comes my way, and it doesn’t take much to warm the contents of this drysuit. It all makes me a little drowsy.

Pink rivulets of once molten granite snake through towering monoliths of fluted black schist. It is the hallmark of this part of the Canyon. Such elegance leaves me breathless. Sometimes it seems unimportant to shoot a picture. The last rapid is run, and what a thrill. Big, fun, and splashy. In the tailwaves, the sentinel rock at Gneiss Canyon comes into view. It is a solemn piece of sculpted schist and granite, presiding over the side canyon. Symbolic to me in that the whitewater ends, and from here on the river is continuously damned and sucked dry, until there is nothing left but parched sand in an ancient streambed.

I arrive at the side canyon with bitterness. This is the place where the destructive force of two of the world’s largest dams come to bear upon the Grand Canyon. It is a place of great natural beauty, counterpoised with fierce manmade ugliness. Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Phoenix, et al. They rape and steal then smile so pleasantly, for their water is almost free. Let them drink salt and sand at their next company picnic in the searing desert sun. The stern political realities are often more than I can handle. I pull in to shore at Gneiss, grab handfuls of sand, and defiantly hurl them at the river. I curse loudly, which finally just turns into frustration, and I quit on it. Paradise lost. It is madness. When I die, throw my ashes into the river right here. The lake below will silt up and die a little sooner.

The rush of water over rock slowly fades, and it is time to rig for silent running. Life-jacket and skid lid stashed and oar extenders installed. I have a bit of that rum, and settle in at the old dam site. It is utterly silent. The wings in flight of a distant heron can be heard clearly. There is something to be said for this kind of quiet. I like it for the moment.

Not far from here is an old wooden table, built from heavy timbers. On it, laid out in order from small to large, are a number of rock drill-bits, all fairly well preserved. High quality steel I would assume. They are the tools of an engineer who never returned to build his dam. A sigh of relief, and it’s back to the boat.

I’m a long ways from the next ferry, so I break out the cot, rig it on top of the boat, leave camp, and drift on down the road. Clear sky, half moon out, and calm winds. Walls have an eerie look to them under the moonlight. No color, just form and shadow from unusual angles. According to my calculations, vessel is moving at about 3 knots. Smokin’ baby! It will slow to half that around bat caves. The Moon sets, it’s dark, and I nod off into the night float.

Day 23 - I woke up around 3:30am to the sound of huge blocks of silt hitting the river, right next to the boat. Flashlight reveals high cliffs of it cleaving off and depositing large dead trees into the current. Hazardous, so raft is anchored in the Salt Creek eddy, which is convenient. Back to sleep.

Up around 6:30 and set back adrift, now that the snags can be seen. Cold, placid, peaceful. Eat lunch while cruising by Burnt Springs, and what a whiney racket through here. The place is all a buzz with Grand Canyon Speed Orgasm Helicopter Sightseers. My God, I have never seen so many choppers in one place in my life! At least the jet skies are gone. Thank you Superintendent Arnberger for that one. Had that crowd achieved concessionaire status, it would take an Act of Congress to root them out.

Sun feels great. Schist finally giving way to sandstone at “river” level. It is the longest and best of the schist gorges. Hope to get past Bat Caves today for camp. If not, then sleep on the boat cot again. A slight caution about night floats right now. Low reservoir levels have laid down lots of dead trees into the current. Broken branches are sharp, and could easily puncture people and rafts. It would be embarrassing to have come all that way, only to sink the boat one quiet evening in Lake Murd.

Found a silt bar a couple miles below the caves for camp. Few places to stop down here, although there are a number of good camps above Salt Creek to Gneiss Canyon. Choppers continue to storm the area late into the day. Darkness finally forces their silence. Hualapai Nation laughs all the way to the bank, while Supreme Courts run from tribal lawyers like a cow.

A beaver slaps the water near camp all night long, and coyotes murmuring somewhere close by. And there are other, more exotic sounds through the night.

Day 24 - It’s overcast and cold this morning, and I don’t expect much sun today. Well, now it’s raining so I hide under the umbrella.

Birdlife down here is astounding. Vegetation is pretty much dead though, and riparian life will probably thin out in coming years. Right now I’ve got my eye on a couple of raven harassing a red-tail hawk. Corvus Corax vs. Buteo Jamaicensis for those who like Latin. Each has good advantage over the other. It looks like fun to me, but I suppose they are serious about it. It’s a slow drift day with binocular sightseeing. No need to row until the boundary buoy.

Exit the Canyon. Long light rays of winter shine through breaks in the clouds, dappling the Grand Wash Cliffs, as weather moves in from the West. What a show. What a day. Winter storm clouds slam into cliffs over Hualapai country, and there is snow above and rain below. I lucked out. One more day in the Canyon, and it would have been miserably cold and wet.

It’s a leisurely row to a small island about half a mile from Pierce Ferry. There is favorable current all the way to the ramp. Never seen that before. It was the easiest row out ever. Up from the ramp is the winding gravel road out to the world I left behind such a long time ago. I have thoughts of home and Christmas with Shawna, family, and friends. I think of the people in my life often. Soon to see them again.

I set up the tent on this gravely shoal. The rain may get me yet. Coffee and hors d’ourves, and that will be it for today. Wait, wait! Fabulous, a break in the clouds west of me right at sunset. The scene is a riot of light. Hastily grab the camera and tripod and set up for one quick shot, then it is gone. Now comes a complete rainbow over the Grand Wash, and that fiery red splash over the Mojave. Grand! Simply Grand! Exciting right to the end.

Day 25 - The morning brings a new light show. A few photos and a short row to the Ferry. Down the hill comes the truck and trailer. Norm and his wife are right on time. We chat awhile and then de-rig.

Ferry to Ferry, it is 280 of the most incredible miles on the planet. Rowed the whole thing and feeling strong. Storm upon the area magnifies the beauty of Grand Wash. A photograph seems in order, but I am done, and leave it for another time.

It was once again, the journey beyond fantastic. It is hard to get here and infinitely harder to leave. I offer quiet words of thanks to Mother Nature for this beloved place. Fare thee well dear river. Fare well my friend.

I stand with ovation. Overhead the hawk cries out to its mate.

- Finis -