The ripples of white water on the lower Colorado River appear harmless in the distance but become more menacing as we draw nearer.
The rapids are clearly visible now, crashing waters whose very force eons ago carved the Grand Canyon’s towering red-rock walls that surround us.
Suddenly, boatman Scott Heaton idles the 40-horsepower motor on this 9,000-pound river raft to talk about Glen and Bessie Hyde. Honeymooners, they were. Hit the rapids. Boat and camera recovered. Bodies never found.
“That’s why this is sometimes called Honeymoon Rapids,” the 24-year-old says solemnly, restarting the motor and pointing the raft toward the foamy brink.
And though it’s as transparent as a campfire ghost story, the tale has its desired effect: Thoughts of the fate of Glen and Bessie-and my own-course through my brain as we plunge down the chute and hit the rushing waters.
The raft churns, water swirls and sprays, screams and whoops echo off canyon walls, and it’s over in a matter of seconds.
On a trip that would have been unthinkable for novices a century ago, 33 of us-ranging in age from 11 to 63-ride 100 miles of the Colorado River’s muddy green waters, camp on its fine-sand beaches, endure 100-degree days and extol the incomparable natural beauty of the Grand Canyon.
In a mere three days, one of the shortest rafting trips on the Colorado, we would ply a relatively tame stretch of the 277 miles of river that flows through the canyon, roughly from Whitmore Canyon to Lake Mead.
Those sitting on the front straddle the enormous raft’s pontoons like cowboys on a bucking bronco, soaked but jubilant.
Farther down the river, our raft approaches the toughest rapids of the trip, rated 6 on a scale of 10. “These are the ones I’ve been waiting for all my life,” screams Ralph Roberts, a man in his late 30s from Warren, Mich., who has never slept under the stars, never run a river and never washed a dish before now.
These 18-passenger sky-blue motorized rafts run by Western River Expeditions-no paddles, no helmets, no special training required-are the cruise ships of the river world. And, like life aboard cruise ships, participants become characters in a floating action-packed play beginning at sunrise and spinning with the river’s current over the course of the day.
As most anxiously await the next white-water plunge, I relax my grip on two hand holds in the back of the raft and enjoy the flat water while it lasts. During calm waters, we float past red domes, the tops of variegated rock layers that turn pink and white as sunlight dances across them. Black schist boulders, the oldest rock in the canyon, are pocked with smoothed holes that a higher, mightier Colorado etched thousands of years ago.
GETTING THERE: It took three consecutive hops on a Twin Otter plane from McCarran Airport in Las Vegas and more than a dozen helicopter jaunts to get all of us and our gear to this point 188 miles down river from Lee’s Ferry. We touch down at the water’s edge about 1 p.m.
Our team of two boatmen and two boatwomen seem woefully young (none over 25) and outnumbered to manage this many greenhorns. Each person is issued a sleeping bag, ground cloth and pad that are placed into a big rubber sac along with a duffel bag full of personal gear. This waterproof bag is stored on the raft until we make camp each evening, but “ammo cans”-bright yellow metal boxes-are accessible on the raft to store essentials like sunscreen, cameras, extra film and a long-sleeve shirt.
Safety instructions are brief: Heaton, the trip leader, gives each of us a life jacket and shows us how to adjust the fit. If someone plunges into the river, he says, a person in the boat should signal by running a finger across their neck, an indication to “cut” the motor and start looking for him or her. If a rescue is too difficult, he warns, the person in the water must point their feet, not their head, downstream until a rescue is possible. That way, they can avoid crashing head-first into a rock.
After starting down a calm section of the river, the two rafts are lashed together and group introductions begin. “I’m from Belfast, and I promise there’s nothing in my luggage ticking,” jokes 29-year-old Irishman Geoff Lamb. The mood lightens and people begin opening up. “Until today I was deathly afraid of flying in a helicopter,” says Dr. Corey Slovis, 44, of Nashville.
We enthusiastically discuss our reasons for coming: Ruth and Bob Tilley of Albany, Ga., are celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary (round of applause); college freshman Laura Wood was lucky enough to tag along with her aunt and uncle; and Karen Hinckley of Philadelphia came just for the view.
“I saw the canyon from the top and I decided to see if from the bottom,” Hinckley, 42, says, laughing.
The first day is spent getting used to the unrelenting sun and braving a few small rapids before pulling up to a sandy beach about 5 p.m. to set up camp.
Boatwoman Andrea Torgesen discusses what’s on everyone’s mind: park-mandated “bathroom” arrangements. Liquid waste goes into the river, a metal portable potty in a discreet area (sometimes concealed by a tent) holds solid waste. All solid waste is hauled out with the garbage, according to park protocol.
There’s time before dinner to explore on foot little paths up the canyon, studded with non-native tamarisk trees, Mormon tea bushes, ocotillo and various types of cactuses. Spaghetti dinner with garlic bread and a fresh green salad tastes great, even with warm winds covering everything with sand.
As night falls, Roberts nearly runs into a coiled rattler en route to the makeshift latrine, and Anne Pentland, who has never seen shooting stars in her native Belfast, spends the better part of the night making wishes on the celestial bodies in the crystal-clear sky.
EXPLORING THE CANYON: The next day, tempting smells of breakfast-sausage, bacon, eggs and home fries; orange juice, coffee, tea or hot chocolate to drink-waft from the beach-side kitchen.
Group members begin packing up; some complain about not being able to sleep well in the great outdoors, while others make small talk over coffee. Real estate agent Roberts, who has emerged as a cheerleader on this trip, asks for help doing something he’d never done before: washing his dish. Everyone applauds his newfound skill.
Once we start down the river, land stops provide a chance to explore some of the passing scenery firsthand. On a short hike past mesquite trees and catclaw bushes, Heaton shows us an old Indian site, where a few shards of pottery still exist. He explains that the Anasazi Indians, who roamed this area about A.D. 200 to A.D. 500, made a huge agave pit where they roasted the plant that resembles yucca and used it for food and fiber.
“They were resourceful, they used every part of a plant. To live in this area,” he says pointing to the sparse chaparral, “they had to survive on what was here.”
At the same stop, we climb down to Pumpkin Springs, an orange bowl filled with algae-covered water created by a hot sulphur spring on the river’s edge. The murky greenish-orange rock bowl holds fetid water that was once flushed clean when river waters were higher.
We continue down river, covering an area inaccessible except by boat, to Travertine Falls, a smooth-rock waterfall whose waters are warm compared to the 60-degree temperature of the river. Some climb the slippery rock to the top of the falls with the help of a rope; others linger at the base, sticking their feet in the water and contemplating the landscape.
We spin through a series of rapids (rated 5 or larger) which, for most on this trip, is a once-in-a-lifetime dream come true.
At a point called Separation Canyon, there’s a cenotaph that invokes memories of Maj. John Wesley Powell, who, in 1869, was the first to successfully lead a boat expedition on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. The rapids were mighty and the loss of life considerable. At this point, according to the plaque at the side of the river, three of his men gave up and decided to walk out rather than face more deadly rapids. They made it to the top, only to be killed by Indians who mistook them for some men who had attacked and murdered one of the tribe’s women.
Prior to 1950, only about 100 people had traversed the canyon by river; now about 20,000 people annually ply the waters on commercial and private rafting trips. Commercial river rafting, which started in the late 1940s, has grown steadily, particularly since the Glen Canyon Dam opened in 1963 and changed the flow of the river. Today, 17 river outfitters licensed by the National Park Service navigate a much milder river than Powell ever knew.
The last night at camp turns festive. Like a good cocktail party where nobody goes home, there’s an unmistakable bond among those who have shared the ride. Everyone is reliving the events of the day while dining on shrimp cocktail and steak. Some are sipping wine or beer and, as the light fades off the canyon walls, strains of Irish folk songs can be heard on the edge of the beach.
SAYING GOODBYE: On the last day, the water is so calm we needn’t wear our life jackets. The mood is mellow as many of us take note of what may be our last glimpses of the canyon from the bottom up.
Crew members, relatively free of chores for the first time since the trip began, take the time to talk to everyone on the boat. Soon we transfer ourselves and our gear to a homemade high-speed boat that motors us at about 40 mph across Lake Mead, where we disembark.
It has been a short trip down the river, but the days felt much longer.
