MY GRAND CANYON ODYSSEY

I’d like to tell you there’s an exciting story behind how I blew out my hamstring in the bottom of the Grand Canyon on a recent raft trip. Maybe sliding off slimy rocks while climbing through Elves Chasm’s Middle Earth-like cavern in order to jump off its waterfall. Perhaps leaping into the Colorado River from the high cliffs at Pumpkin Springs. Slipping on the tricky hike up Deer Creek. Or floating through aquamarine rapids of the Little Colorado River. Even from falling off our behemoth raft at an inopportune moment.

Nope. I’ve done all those things at some point on ten prior trips, and even been hurt pretty badly a few times, but this was nothing so dramatic. Nope. It happened when I was looking for my gin. My right leg slipped into the raft’s cargo hold where the booze is stored. It was dark and I was really stoned and that happened. On Day 2 of our eight-day trip.

Although my hiking was over, it could have been worse. For one of our passengers, who had to be evacuated by a National Park Service helicopter, it was. And then there was my son-in-law who had a likely-rabid bat crash into his face.

Ours was an epic adventure in the most beautiful place on Earth, filled with breathtaking scenery, mile-high cliffs set against deep blue skies, close encounters with bighorn sheep and ravens, rainbow trout for the catching, marvelous camaraderie, and no cell service despite satellites blinking across constellations in the nighttime skies. And every one of our 280 miles, every rapid, every colorful rock layer, has a story. Of adventures, tragedies, mysteries, geology, paleontology, archaeology, history, and nature. Spirits abound.

Our journey was chartered through Grand Canyon Expeditions – the best of the best. Two motorized rafts, 28 passengers, and 4 crew. All were friends, or friends of friends, of me or my chartering partner, Peter.

Me & Peter (photo by Joanne)

The river is calling

Like all such raft trips, ours started below Glen Canyon Dam at Lee’s Ferry. It’s named after John D. Lee, a despicable character who was executed in 1877 for his leadership role in the local Mormons’ massacre of 120 Arkansas pioneers – men, women, and children – at Utah’s Mountain Meadows. (I wrote earlier about my grim visit there three years ago.)

After riverside orientation and launching, you hit Badger Rapid, then the bigger Soap Creek Rapid. Those take their names from an 1831 incident when hungry Mormon missionaries, in a quixotic journey to convert indigenous Hopi, shot a badger and tried to boil it, but the vile soup turned to soap. And there’s the whirlpool where the Trump-like huckster, Frank Mason Brown, drowned in 1889 while surveying for the railroad he wanted to build along the river, all the way from the Rockies to the Sea of Cortez. Like I said, there are stories and there are stories.

Some stories are carried in the hearts of visitors. Sometimes the Canyon brings fulfillment or closure to memories. Each moment on the river is to be savored, in all its own detail, bringing new perspective to old views. How could it not, when you’re surrounded by Earth’s unfathomably ancient history?

Passing under Navaho Bridges, the last highway crossing of the Colorado River for 350 miles, we watched a California condor sitting stoically on the bridge’s underbelly of girders. Like all its gigantic ilk, the endangered condor had a numbered tag on its wing, marking it as one of only 600 on all the Earth.

The bird’s survival is testament to generations of scientists and lovers of nature who have brought the ancient birds back from the brink of extinction, including hand-rearing some chicks. One of our passengers shared with me an account of her husband’s contribution to that very work. Stories continue to unfold in the Canyon’s skies and currents.

Kris (photo by Sara)

Big waves

There’s nothing like the thrill of crashing into Grand Canyon’s gargantuan rapids, and no one is more aggressive than Boatman Adam at hitting them head-on. My favorite spot on the raft is up front, dead center, where you can experience the full fury of big waves’ power. That’s where I was sitting when he charged us into House Rock Rapid, and I found myself upside down, looking at the sky between my feet, gripping tie-down ropes that had come loose, and distinctly remembering advice given on an earlier trip: “If you go into a rapid and feel like you are underwater, don’t let go!”

Passenger and friend Karrie, sitting just behind me, also went into free-flight. After that ride, we tried to collect ourselves, readjusting gear and straps, amazed that we had survived relatively unscathed. I’ve been through lots of vicious rapids, including previous crashes through House Rock, but that one left me dazed. It was a full thirty minutes before our brains returned to a semblance of normal. We stared a lot at nothing in particular, repeatedly muttering to no one in particular, “Wow!”

It’s a Zen-like experience, when the big raft rolls over the crest of a rapid, diving into a monstrous hole, only to smash head-first into the base of the standing wave that swallows the entire raft in its throat. For exquisite seconds, nothing else exists. Just the present instant defined by the mountain of water engulfing your existence. Consciousness is reduced to the essence of the moment.

I treated every rapid as if it might be my last. Face your danger, was my mantra. Rather than flinch and duck when the big waves hit, as is your instinct, I vowed to take them head up, eyes wide open. Often, I discreetly talked to the river, “Come on, motherfucker! Show me what you’ve got!” One time, it answered, giving my big mouth a big gulp.

Camping

Camping in the Grand Canyon reduces life’s choices to basic elements, replacing normal complexities of work, family, bills. Our first night, we faced a threat of rain, with heavy, fluffy clouds scooting across the slot of horizonless sky visible from the bottom of the Canyon. Will it storm during the night? Your choice: take a chance and hope for the best or be prepared for the worst and set up a tent – staying dry but sweaty all night in the confined 90-degree heat and humidity. All opted for the first choice.

Curled up on cots, we did get a bit of rain – giant drops pummeling the tarps we’d pulled over our heads. We’d been up since 4 am for the hours-long bus ride from Las Vegas to the river, and the patter lulled us to a divine sleep of the dead.

A most memorable Day 2

The Grand Canyon giveth and the Grand Canyon taketh away. Our first full day on the river brought wind with 50 mph gusts, filling every exposed orifice with blowing sand. But the day also surprisingly blessed us with exclusive visitation at the iconic Redwall Cavern.

While lunch was being prepared by the crew, on the expansive beach, I had the chance to share with a group of passengers  the tragic tale of the Grand Canyon railroad that never got built. Afterward, a few of us walked to the rear of the enormous cavern, to find the spot where that expedition’s photographer set up his survey’s camera. It’s like a little treasure hunt, where “X” marks that spot he chiseled atop a great boulder in 1890. Your fingers touch history.

It was right after lunch when Christine slipped and fell on the sloping beach’s edge and tore open her left knee, exposing tendons and bone, dangerously contaminated with sand. The good news, such as it was, is that my wife, Eva, was on the trip – an exceptional nurse practitioner. Of course, I felt terrible for Christine, but I also rued its impact on Eva, who was forced to instantly shift from a carefree raft passenger to professional medical expert, cleaning and patching Christine’s injury with distilled water and limited medical supplies. The wound was so gruesome that I dared not look.

The guides called via satellite phone for a helicopter evacuation, but the high winds made that impossible. So using a tabletop, they rigged a makeshift stretcher to hoist Christine back onto a raft, where she remained while we floated to camp that evening.

In camp, Christine rested on her cot while her cousin, Patrick, softly serenaded her with his guitar and sweet voice. Throughout the week, he would do the same for the entire group, gathered on folding chairs after dinners. But it was that lovely moment when he did his best to comfort Christine that stays with me.

I’d known Christine but briefly as my copy editor, when I worked as a neophyte environment reporter for newspapers in Michigan. She had seen my Facebook post seeking passengers. Who could have guessed we’d have such a tragic reunion 40 years later? Life can be crazy. And Day 2’s surprises, as well as Eva’s medical attentions, were just getting started.

Meanwhile, I hiked up a short, steep trail behind camp to the burial site of Peter Hansbrough. He was one of the casualties of that ill-fated railroad surveying trip. His drowned body was found a year later, identified by the boots still on his skeleton, and hauled up the rocky scree and buried under an overhang. I sat there, alone, a long while, looking down on our camp, thinking about the vagaries of life, and all that had brought me to this fleeting moment of bliss at a 135-year-old gravesite.

Before I left Hansbrough to his peace, I shared with him a few pleasantries, as well as some of the green can of Gatorade I’d carried up the hill. Then I returned to camp for dinner, where my own fate awaited. For it was that evening, while happily sharing joints with a few of the women passengers, that I got a hankering for a gin and tonic. After all, Adam had brought extra limes just for me.

Ironically, until that point, I’d been feeling especially fine. My old hips were doing well. I bounced around the raft, hopping on and off, as if my age was just a number. And that’s when my leg slipped into the raft’s cargo hold while retrieving my canteen of gin, ripping my hamstring muscle, and turning my rafting trip into a completely different experience.

Adversity brings growth

In the early light of Day 3, before raging winds resumed, the helicopter flew in to rescue Christine. It landed on a spit of beach across the river from our campsite, where Christine had earlier been ferried. It was a sad moment, especially since she had worked so hard to get prepared for the rigors of the trip. Despite my own disabling injury, I couldn’t pretend to know how she must have felt.

(photo by John)

Boatman Zach, in response to our trip’s challenging outset, counselled us to stay positive, that “adversity brings growth.” I vowed to take his counsel and ignore the pain in my ruined leg. After Christine’s departure, we stopped at the mouth of the legendary Little Colorado River, where I was determined to hike upstream to the spot that rafters float through idyllic rapids. It’s an Edenic scene best captured by Cousin Debby’s words on a prior trip: “If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m surrounded by atheists, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to Heaven.”

(photo by Emily)

I struggled, aided by my walking stick, Advil, and Eva, and made the 1.3-mile riverside trek, but was in too much pain to vicariously appreciate everyone else’s heavenly fun. Back at the raft, I shared with Boatman Adam, “That was a mistake. My hiking is done.”

For the rest of the trip, I hobbled about, useless to help with bag lines to load and unload the rafts, with Eva, Karrie, Peter, and others helping me on and off the raft, carrying my bags, and setting up cots each night. It was a bit humiliating, after getting back on the raft each time, to crawl on hands and knees over the bags of gear to reach relative comfort at the back half of the bouncing raft. No matter what, I kept telling myself, “I’d rather be here and in pain than anywhere else – with or without pain.”

Chillin' (photo by Charlotte)

After my injury, Adam had contemplated making me evacuate with Christine, and talked privately with Eva about the seriousness of my condition. His guideline, he told me later, “Are you jeopardizing the safety of yourself or others if you fall off the raft?”

I assured him, “I’ve still got two good arms and one good leg, and could swim to shore.” Which was probably true, but I’m glad I never had to test my theory.

Bag line, sans me (photo by Charlotte)

Despite my new handicap, I discovered that I could still sit up front and ride point through rapids, like I’d done at House Rock. So I did, including our ride on Day 7 through the Grand Canyon’s quintessential rapid – Lava Falls – an infamous, dangerous, complex torrent. Adam navigated it brilliantly, with me and everyone else whooping and hollering!

At home

"Each man sees himself in the Grand Canyon - each one makes his own Canyon before he comes, each one brings and carries away his own Canyon." – Carl Sandburg

I confess that I tear up a lot in the Canyon, much to my embarrassment, overwhelmed by the privilege to be alive amidst its grandeur, sharing such beauty with people I love. Nowhere on Earth do I feel more at home, more myself, than in the Grand Canyon. It’s why I keep returning, year after year, despite the challenges of pulling together a group of people for these not-inexpensive charters, and despite my not-infrequent injuries on my trips. On the river, for eight days, life is reduced to its essentials – not one word of news, politics, or wars. No email, messages, Facebook, YouTube, or podcasts. It’s the Grand Canyon, and that’s enough.

"The girls" (photo by Sara)

I received a compliment on the trip from one of the younger women passengers, which really took me aback. “Wayne, you’ve got swagger.” Later, I had to look it up: “Someone with ‘swagger’ carries themselves with a high degree of confidence, bravado, and undeniable charm or flair.” Only in the Canyon does that fit. That was, of course, before I fucked up while looking for my gin.

BFF

Boatman Adam and I share a visceral, addictive love of all things Grand Canyon. I don’t know how many trips he’s done – probably at least 150, including eight with me. One time, eight years ago and against my better judgment, he convinced me to accompany him as his swamper – the boatman’s assistant who does grunt work, like safely tying up the raft on shore, helping in the kitchen, and pushing the raft off the beach when departing a stop. Let’sjust say, once was enough.

A good boatman has the ability to direct the raft’s splashes to the right, left, or center, depending on the angle hitting a rapid. Adam is a master. No matter where I sat on the raft, a deluge seemed to target me. No accident, I learned. Early in the trip, Adam confided to Eva and Karrie, “Understand, I love Wayne, but I’m going to try and murder him with water. If you don’t want to get wet, don’t sit near him.” Word quickly spread, and I often had the best (i.e., wettest) spots on the raft to myself.

It's not that Adam isn’t solicitous of my creeping old age. He told our group the story of Bert Loper, christened the Grand Old Man of the Colorado, who capsized rowing 24.5 Mile Rapid in 1949 with a heart attack. His body was never recovered. You can still see his decrepit little boat, resting above the river’s flood line. Like me, he was just shy of his 80^th birthday.

“At least you’ve lived a week and half longer than Bert,” Adam happily informed me. I guess that should have made me feel a little better.

Alone in the Canyon

Imagine being absolutely alone in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. No sounds but the music of the river, wind in the tamarisks, and the occasional calling of ravens and canyon wrens. The beating of your heart connects with the rhythm of the Canyon’s timeless symphony. Thanks to my injury, I had that remarkable experience for a long while one day, when all the passengers and crew hiked up a side canyon, leaving me alone on the beach. Unforgettable.

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it… I am haunted by waters.” - Norman Maclean

Last night

By our final night, the waning moon came up late, giving us the Canyon’s full dark-sky extravaganza. Eva crashed early, and after my last evening confab with the weed-smoking women ended, Patrick showed up at his nearby campsite.

For a long while, we lay side-by-side on the beach sand, watching the stars blink on. We spoke of things most important in those moments – trying to identify and remember names of constellations and stars. Follow the handle of the Big Dipper, and there was Arcturus. Slowly twinkling into view was Corona Borealis, the Northern Crown. Cygnus the Swan, or the Northern Cross, tipped by bright Deneb. And low on the horizon, us being so far south, was the North Star. We shared about the same level of mediocre astronomical knowledge. A fine conclusion to our trip.

Finally, I stumbled back to my cot, falling on my face once, which was a good thing since my noise clued in Eva that I was headed toward the wrong campsite. I don’t think I would have crawled onto the wrong cot, but you never know.

Bats

The Grand Canyon hosts a lot of bats. Every night, they’d fill the skies over our campsites. No one gave it much thought until that last night, when they were especially numerous. Eva and I had camped under a tamarisk tree, with branches just over our heads, in order to get some early-evening shade. That turned out to be an aerial thruway for the insect-chasing critters, but by the time I passed out, I was oblivious to their chirping and fluttering over our heads.

Meanwhile, however, down the beach aways, Troy had a more intimate encounter when a bat smashed right into his cheek. Given bats’ uncanny sonar in finding minute bugs in the dark, that didn’t seem quite right.

First, a bit of back story on how he and our daughter, Kristen, were even there. Another of Christine’s cousins, Sheryl, and her husband John, were supposed to be on the trip. But just days before departure, John crashed his bicycle and broke his collarbone. A crushing disappointment for them. Thankfully, they had purchased trip insurance, so weren’t out the trip costs. So we had two paid-for, open spots on our charter, with no time to fill them.

Now, Eva and I had plane tickets to Las Vegas, but just three days before we were scheduled to fly, she came home from work and out of the blue declared, “Why don’t we just drive? Our plane tickets are refundable.” So the next day, we loaded up Ruby, her bright red Mercedes, and headed from Oregon down I-5 for the two-day drive. A few hours into our trip, she had another brainstorm. “Why don’t we see if Kristen and Troy want to go?” And that was that.

We cleared it with everyone, and just five hours later(!), Kristen and Troy were also headed south on I-5. Ithad taken me weeks to properly pack for our expedition. Not only did they manage to pack all the necessary gear for their trip, but Troy had also gotten time off work, changed the oil in his new truck, and they’d arranged for leaving their three kids behind. It helped that they’d done the raft trip with us five years earlier, but still had to stop along the way to buy new water shoes, etc. They caught up with us at 1:30 in the morning at our motel in California, and the next day we drove, mostly together, and arrived in plenty of time for the evening rafting orientation at our Las Vegas hotel.

As for his bat encounter, Troy didn’t think it amounted to much and downplayed it when mentioning it to Adam. Turns out, however, the National Park Service has a zero-tolerance policy about any bat-human contact, due the prevalence of rabies in Grand Canyon bats. Had it not been the last night, it would have meant a mandatory helicopter evacuation for Troy. As it was, upon return to Las Vegas, he had to go straight to an ER and was given four painful vaccine shots for rabies and one for tetanus. Back home in Oregon, he got another series of rabies shots.

We all learned a lot about how bat rabies can be transmitted, not just from obvious bites, but even from their tiny claws and sharp hairs. The fatality rate in 100%. “That was the most expensive free trip I’ve ever had,” Troy noted later.

Epilog

My Grand Canyon odyssey was a fabulous experience, shared with an incredible group of people. As far as I can tell, each passenger loved it all. For some, it was simply a grand adventure.

Sara & her big beautiful trout

Others were well out of their comfort zone, yet embraced the physical and mental challenges with good spirits and open minds. For a few, it was a time of emotional and spiritual healing.

I’ve now done eleven raft trips since 1990, and this may have been the best group ever – no drama, no whining, mellow. Great weather, clear (albeit low) water. Eight days went far too fast. All this was made possible due to the professionalism, training, and experience of our remarkable guides, Adam and Zach, assisted by swampers Sedona and Natty (Adam’s 15-year-old son), and backed by Grand Canyon Expeditions dedicated staff. Love of the Grand Canyon is in the company's roots and reason for being.

(photo by John)

And then, of course, there was the astonishing, mesmerizing power and beauty of the Canyon itself. We were blessed.

I say this, despite four people ending up in the ER. First, there was John, with his broken collarbone before even getting to the trip. Then, Christine, with her torn knee and helicopter evacuation. Then, Troy, with his bat encounter. And me, with my ripped hamstring.

What would I have done during this crazy week without my beautiful, badass wife? Talk about blessed!

 

After our return to Las Vegas, Eva and I drove south to spend a week with dear friends in Bullhead City. The pain from my injury didn’t seem to be improving, so we went to the local ER. That’s how I spent July 4^th, my 80^th birthday, learning that the hamstring tear would heal with time, but that it had caused a blood clot, a DVT, in my calf. Now I’m on blood thinners for the next three to six months.

Happy 80th birthday to me!

I know how this is going to sound, but I’m gonna tell you anyways. Would I have slipped and wrecked my hamstring if I hadn’t been stoned that night? Probably not. But that’s like saying I wouldn’t have slipped if I had just been more careful. Or not gone on another risky raft trip at my age in the first place. Shit happens. I love the Grand Canyon. And I do love my weed.

Perhaps there’s some perverse karmic justice at work here. For after getting my prescription for Eliquis, I asked the Google a simple question. Can I still smoke cannabis while on blood thinners. Turns out, no way. It seems that THC messes with the P-450 liver enzyme, critical for the blood thinner to safely work its magic.

I’m now home and back to walking and biking (weed free), slowly getting better. This too shall pass. I’ve started a workout regime with my physical therapist and new friend Stu (who was on the trip), and expect to be fully recovered in time for next year’s already chartered raft trip (with Adam, of course), departing Lee’s Ferry, June 18, 2027. We’re looking for passengers.

A prayer

The Grand Canyon is a sacred place, where each visitor worships in their own way. You drink in its sublimity, hoping to carry home a bit of your transcendent moments. Countless artists and writers try to capture that essence. For me, musicians come closest, and I have my own Grand Canyon playlist, listened to with AirPods through gentle stretches of the river or hikes up side canyons (at least on prior, non-incapacitated trips) to later remind me of the indescribable experience.

Perhaps my favorite is the music of boatman Benjie Howard. His tune, “Arizona” (available on YouTube), especially speaks to me. As it turned out, Swamper Sedona is the girlfriend of his son. 

Sedona (photo by Charlotte)

Though she didn’t get a chance to share with our group the following “Prayer,” written by Benjie, she gave me a copy. I’m including it here, a perfect coda to the story of my Grand Canyon odyssey. I hope he won’t mind.

May your journey be long, and the river of your journey carry you well

May the rapids that lay ahead be powerful and treacherous and the

Route through prove difficult and rewarding.

May you find the serenity of calm water

May you lay some night on the hard ground so that

You will not sleep and might notice the heavens.

May the morning reward you

And may you greet that morning as if you are newly born

May you know death so when she comes you may greet her with dignity

May your days gather behind you like stories

And spread out before you like a dream

At the end of the day

May you know that you have left little trace

And may your feet ache

May you find solace and wisdom in the setting sun

And in the moment that it slips over the horizon

May its mystery be revealed

Only as a mystery

May you hear the rhythm of love beat in your heart

So that you might sing to it

And others sing along

May your mind be set free and your body set in motion

May your grandchildren kneel down at the bank of a stream

Gather pure clean water from it

And may they give thanks to you for the gift.

              --Amen 

(photo by Emily)

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