At the
conclusion of the first one back in 1990, I had looked into the video camera
and said, “This trip was absolutely perfect. Any other trip we might take will
be measured against this one.”
And that’s
just what we were doing at the start of our latest raft trip. Those of us who had
done it before were reminiscing and comparing – the gear, the food, the
availability of ice, the pre-trip hotel, the six-hour bus-ride to the river, the
weather, and even the guides.
The first
night we camped, to my delight, on a beach where on that first trip I had spent
one of the most memorable nights of my life – riding out a colossal
thunderstorm with our two swampers high on the cliffs under sheltering ledges,
and overlooking the campsite (where everyone else had set up tents) and the river
as lightning electrified our view and thunder reverberated through the Canyon.
As the storm cleared, the clouds had opened to a nearly full moon illuminating the
landscape.
Having returned
years later, I climbed those same cliffs and found the very spot the three
of us had huddled, damp and happy. Back on the beach, telling my friends that
story gave me an excuse to show them a snapshot I'd brought with me of another place on the river. Flyin’
Brian and I are perched daringly on a rock projecting high into space, the
river distant below us. In my mind, I could see myself repeating my pose in
that stunt. I asked our boatman, Art, if he knew the spot, but he couldn’t
place it. He didn’t roll his eyes, but might as well have.
It’s just, you know, you’re supposed to be here now, and all that…
“Ok, Art,” I
said. “Just one more Brian question and I’ll drop it for good. I know you’re
sick of hearing about past history.”
I just had
to find out if my memory had played tricks with me over the years, whether how
I remembered my scary experience I’d had with Brian was even close to reality. For
it’s a memory that still gives me chills after all these years.
I told Art
that I thought it happened on Havasu Creek, an idyllic side stream of turquoise
water flowing through miles of canyon and over waterfalls of all sizes. I
explained how on our first trip, we had hiked to a large pool where you could
duck under a short waterfall into a low-ceilinged cavern and look out through the
falling water. It was easy and everyone thought it great fun.
We returned
to the same spot on our second trip down the river with Brian the following
year. By now, he had gotten to know me pretty well, which must have been why he
suggested to me, “Want to try something different?”
I listened
and swallowed hard and made him go over the instructions one more time. Despite
my intense claustrophobia, I knew I’d never have another chance for such an
experience. “Let’s do it.”
Brian
plunged into the river, dove out of sight, and vanished. I gave him about a
minute, as he’d instructed, and then followed. I took the biggest breath I
could and dove down, finding the underwater opening in the cliff face, just big
enough to swim into, right where he had promised. I kicked into the darkness,
reaching the bend that turned right and up. Swimming through the underwater
tunnel probably took less than a half-minute, but I remember it seeming longer.
At the end, I popped up beside Brian in a tiny opening with barely enough
headroom to keep our chins above water. The only light filtered up weakly through
our watery escape route. Brian laughed, said we had to get out within a minute or
two before we used up all the oxygen, and that’s what we did.
I described
to Art how I remembered that little escapade and asked if he knew the place,
“not that I’m even remotely suggesting I’d want to do that again.” He knew the place. I
asked whether it was anything close to as scary as I remembered. “Worse,” he
said. “It’s called The Green Room. I’ve only been there twice.”
I told Art
that I couldn’t believe Brian would take me to such a place. Art explained,
simply, “He’s crazy.”
Later, I
showed the photo of me and Brian to the other guides; one of the swampers,
Duffy, recognized the spot. Boatwoman Ann-Marie said the trail up to that
overlook had worn away, and they seldom took visitors there. But we’ll see, she
said. “Maybe we can get you up there with Art and recreate the shot.”
As it turned
out, we did set up camp one night within sight and hiking
distance of that picturesque overlook. By then, however, I’d been on The Death
March (see next story) and felt fully in the here and now. I concluded it
foolish to try and relive past memories. We were creating new ones from new
experiences with a new group of people and that was enough. Hiking up that
cliff to recreate an old memory wasn’t even a consideration.
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