I stood on hot black tarmac next to a Cessna single-engine turboprop plane, gut fluttering with excitement. My nerves were exploding when seating assignments finished up, my name uncalled. “Wait, how could I mess up this bad!? How can I NOT be on this plane?” my immediate thoughts. Our young pilot looked at me & smiled as I nervously approached.
“Umm, you didn’t call my name.”
“Are you Dale?”
“Yeeeesss?”
“Step right up” he says, as he opens the copilot door to the cockpit.
You have GOT to be kidding me.
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I flew the whole way on the very edge of my seat staring out the front window and into the abyss of the canyon as if I were a 10 year old kid again. The headphones we wore to drown the roar of the plane playing what sounded like the very same music from my Dad’s favorite old western movie. Near our landing, where the ground below us seemed the most treacherous, we skirted a wildly beautiful storm; lightning streaking so close I watched our pilots eyes widen with alarm. The monitors between us showed his trajectory veer; then veer again. Despite an uneasy thrill, my childlike eagerness was in no way dampened. From the moment I climbed into the plane, I knew the next two weeks were out of my control. I was placing my trust FULLY in people I only just met. After I got off this 9 seater plane, I’d be gearing up & hopping into a 13ft foot yellow raft to paddle it down 200+ miles of the Colorado River & her rapids.
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That flight with its simultaneous light show set the tone for the two weeks: seeing up close a spectacle of natural dangers in all their glory, but being skillfully navigated to safety. A handsomely memorable journey. As we landed at Marble Canyon our pilot helped us off the plane, looked up at the dark rumbling clouds, laughed over to the other pilots waiting to shuttle back together & stated, “Well, I guess now we go home.”
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Within the first 5 miles on the water, soon after the water changed into a thick brown at the Paria River confluence, 4 condors watched us float by shattering any idea of staying remotely clean on this trip. I’m a bit of a dirt bag & am ok with dirty days of camping & roughing it, but I sorely misunderstood the level of “soiled” I would become on this river. When you swim in the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon, you aren’t swimming in water. You are swimming in diluted mud. Even more so at the Little Colorado River where we anticipated seeing brilliant blue waters from minerals. An area sacred to many regional indigenous tribes. Here, due to recent storms, the river ran like chocolate. It didn’t stop us from riding down the shallow waters like a waterslide. The layers of grim on my scalp were innumerable. The exfoliation from the wind, sun, sand & sunscreen mixture was impressive.
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Our boat of all women, brought together by the birthday girl, bonded instantly over stupid jokes & nervous excitement. We giggled, we oogled, & we paddled like hell. Our very first rapids, although considered tame on the Grand Canyon scale, were exhilarating. It didn’t take long before we were hitting walls of water, staring into the abyss of pockets as we paddled past, launching over wave trains & being navigated towards the safest spicy sauce. The slow water brought time for more stupid jokes, some history of the region, bird watching & canyon gaping. Whether it was the rumbling rapids, the canyon wrens serenading us, or the archeological features spotted from our boat, we rode the canyon in wonderment. At camp we dined like queens & slept under the most brilliant stars, sand as our pillow. Each morning I woke to bats diving & swirling over my head in the early dusk, a silent alarm.
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When I close my eyes now, the thing I see most vividly from the canyon are those ever changing, never ending walls. Striations. Textures. Layers. Hues. But really, the size! I massively underestimated the amount of awe I could hold for this crevice. Preparing for the trip, my naivety had me concerned I would become disenchanted after a few days of seeing the same. Thing is, none of it’s the same. Every few miles something changed, captivating me all over again. A garden of vines & flowers spilling from the rock wall just overhead from an unseen spring. Archeology sites where remnants of the most superb pottery still scatter the clay. A short hike to a spectacular waterfall where mist envelopes you & the pool below is the nearest to Tiffany blue you think you’ve ever seen organically. Lizards swinging their oversized tails wildly as they climbed what looked like completely smooth, completely vertical faces. A fairy cave of moss & green so highly contrasting the desert surrounding with a waterfall you jump through. Looking up to endless layers of unbelievably old rocks, still not seeing rim level.
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The vastness & isolation of the Grand Canyon makes it spectacular but there is an added layer of wonder when the entire group is caught in this permanent fascination. When feel you the adrenaline of escaping the clutches of the all-powerful water. When the musky scent of a big horn sheep is caught while sitting eating a picnic lunch. When you are a boat full of only women & you hit the spiciest line of the entire caravan. There is magic in ALL of that my friends, & to this day I am devouring it.
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The last few miles we are ferried out. Hair whipping back, dry bags stuffed with nearly as much sand as clothes, we near the take out. Stepping onto solid ground, there are signs of civilization. It’s an odd somber chaos as everything from our grubby boats is unloaded & unpacked, swapped into duffels & suitcases that now feel incredibly fancy. Desert trees pass then disappear into the horizon behind us as our bus pulls onto the interstate. Well, I guess now we go home, we say with a glossy shine in our eyes.
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TAKE THE ADVENTURE