Journey Through America’s Wildest Canyon

Out of my Element in the Elements

When I climbed out of the wilderness after nine days rafting through the Grand Canyon, I was covered in sand, head to toe and between my teeth, my hair thick with silt, my clothes damp with muddy water.

I had been transformed into another creature—a river runner, a waterfall climber, a stemmer, a star-gilded sleeper who communes with snakes, spiders, big horn sheep, chum and scorpions, who swoons with blue herons, vultures, swallows and bats, crawling among prickly pear tuna, locust trees, cardinal monkey flowers, horsetail reeds and Proterozoic shiny black Vishnu Schist and Paleozoic Tapeats Sandstone.

I had learned to listen to the water of my own body and let it flow.

Fluent

I would love to live
Like a river flows
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.
—John O’Donohue

Smoke, Spirit, and Setting Out

When we first arrived at the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park, an ominous plume of smoke floated in through the canyon, concealing all views of the monolithic rock walls that I dearly adored. Choking on the heavy air, I walked to the rim, my eyes tearing from the poor air quality and the sight or lack of. I listened to the utterances of languages from around the world, imagining they shared my disappointment.

The North Rim was on fire.

A fire that had begun in Kaibab National Forest was mistakenly determined to be controllable and was allowed to burn. In recent years, while wildfires aren’t necessarily more frequent in the southwest, they have increased in severity due to more drought and higher winds. On this blazing hot day in mid-July, winds picked up the lashing flames and ripped through the park, destroying the historic North Rim lodge that my family and I had stayed in only a few years back.

I was deeply concerned. We had plans to spend the next 9 days without shelter in the depths of the Grand Canyon and I was struggling to stay outside for 30 minutes. I could only hope the atmosphere would clear before morning when we were to make the 7-mile-long descent down to the Colorado River along the Bright Angel Trail.

As I had planned to do, I spent time meditating at the rim, calling in the spirit of the land, of grandmother canyon, to introduce myself, ask permission to enter, and give an offering. My connection felt as cloudy as the air and filtered through a hot haze, but I knew that even if I struggled in the moment to be in relationship with the land, I would have plenty of time to do so in the days ahead. It was the intention and gesture that mattered. I said my peace and tossed quartzite stones I had brought with me from home over the rim as an offering of respect. I could only hope she heard me.

Perhaps she did because the next morning, although in the dark of predawn we could see three distinct fires raging across the canyon, the air was clear, the winds were on our side. Additionally, the trail was closed to the public and only our tour group was permitted to pass, so we had the usually over-crowded trail all to ourselves.

After the brutal hike that wrecked my calves for four days, we met our raft caravan and the incredibly supportive and generous people from Arizona Rafting Adventures that were to guide us through the canyon. They took our heavy packs from our backs and showed us where to immerse our hot bodies in the cold waters of the Colorado.

Life on the Colorado

The Colorado River in the Grand Canyon is cold because of the Glen Canyon dam that resides upriver and creates Lake Powell. When the dam releases water, it pulls from the depths of the lake where the water receives no direct sunlight. Before the dam, the river experienced wild seasonal swings, massive floods from snowmelt in the springtime and low flows in all the other seasons, maybe even shallow or dry in drought conditions in winter. Now it is consistent, cold and mostly clear.

On our first night at camp there was an unexpected downpour, and we stood dripping wet under a small willow tree, trying to keep our plates of spaghetti dry while we attempted to befriend the other guests and figure out how the mechanisms of the daily evening ritual would proceed. Everything we had was soaked and coated in the thin wet sand prevalent on the beaches in the canyon.

We quickly learned that nothing was so sacred that it could not get wet and sandy. Wet and sandy was to be our existence for the rest of our time, some days drier than others, but the sand would always prevail.

Facing the Grand Canyon’s Most Legendary Rapids

The next day we floated 25 massive white-water rapids back-to-back. And while our river guides were more than competent, I was literally shaking in my Tevas with each approach.

It was at this moment that I was wondering what the heck I had gotten myself into. In my mind, I was going to be floating down the Colorado like I was tubing a Lazy River at a water park. Oh, how I underestimated our adventure.

The Colorado River in the Grand Canyon is so massive that it has its own classification system. Instead of the standard international Class I–VI scale, they are rated on a 1-10 scale, with ten being the most technical and challenging.

On our first full day on the river we ran a Class 10 rapid, the notorious Crystal Falls. Our guide, Phil prepared us enthusiastically, “Okay folks, I’m clocking in now. Hold on tight and say your prayers. Let’s go!” I think I was literally praying.

The river felt huge and wild, the frothing sprays beat at our boat and smacked us like a wet wall to the face. Each wave reached over the rim of our raft to splash us entirely. We steered toward monumental boulders to catch the cushion and ride the current out while avoiding massive holes that could suck us in and keep us recirculating and beat down in a game of Whac-A-Mole against another boulder. Once our bow kissed a crag and I was sure the whole thing would topple.

Someone fell out of the paddle boat up ahead and they were perfectly fine, rescued after only a few minutes, but it was clear to me that I did not want to fall out of the boat ever and, spoiler alert, I made it through with my wish intact.

Eventually with familiarity, I grew to enjoy the thrill of the rapids, whooping and laughing with each new whitewater segment like I was a regular Kenton Grua*. We welcomed the splashing rapids that kept us cool from the rising heat.

Effects of the Glen Canyon Dam on the Colorado River

Before the dam was trapping sediment and regulating flows, large floods used to actively build, rebuild, and sometimes even change rapids year after year, making them less consistent. I was glad for their consistency now and confident my guides who had run the river countless times knew what to expect.

While some guides were okay with the dam, others spoke openly about how it was disrupting the biodiversity of the ecosystem. Owen told us about how the dam blocks the transport of millions of tons of sediment downriver, degrading the riparian habitat. Hydroelectric dams are controversial because while they cause major environmental destruction, they also provide a sustainable source of energy, like the Glen Canyon Dam which powers much of the southwestern United States and supplies water for millions of people in cities downstream.

I called Eric the River Ninja because the first day his sunscreen sprayer broke and he spent the rest of the time surprisingly comfortable wrapped head to toe in garments.

Adventures Off the Raft: Waterfall Climbing and Canyon Stemming

Along with dangerous turbulent waters, we also took day hikes, scaling up waterfalls and edging precariously along cliff precipices. All along I met multiple edges literal and figurative, pushing myself beyond what I thought I could possibly do, and drawing on reserves of resilience I didn’t know I had.

For example, I couldn’t stop to think when I tried a new-to-me activity called stemming, or I certainly would have backed out. In stemming, you extend your body across two canyon walls and climb upwards to the next ledge. I had to push every muscle in my body to make it happen. There were moments when I feared I couldn’t go any farther and utilized all my reason and will to continue.

At one point with my arms stretched overhead on one wall and my feet extended to the opposite wall, looking down at the cascade below, I said to the guide and trip lead, Sara, “My body doesn’t stretch anymore.” She replied, “I know,” which made me laugh. Then she assured me it only got narrower after that, and I was halfway through.

I’m glad I did it as much as I was glad to be done with it. The oasis at the top was well worthwhile.

There were so many beautiful oases and waterfalls, including the famous turquoise travertine falls of the Havasu tribe. Each day there was another Eden to immerse ourselves in.

Sleeping Wild in the Desert

At night, after a great filling dinner, we laid out our sleeping pads on the beach despite threats of scorpions and rabid bats. After the first couple of nights of rain, it was too hot to sleep in our tent. A warm thermal breeze emanated off the cliffsides, so we learned quickly to camp near the water where we were occasionally graced with a cold wind off the river. We fell asleep under the crescent moon seen through the crack in the canyon above. We awoke in the yellow of dawn light before the sun had a chance to shine on us.

Constantly my eyes scaled the towering cliffsides as my mind made futile attempts to conceive that I was only viewing 1/5^th of the enormity above.

Reflections from the Rim

The experience was everything I had hoped it would be and a true celebration of my 50 years of life, how far I’ve come and how I want to continue to live my life going forward. Before I left on this trip, the Grand Canyon meant more to me than a location on a map but a place in my heart of mythic proportions. I am happy to say that after this trip, after I got an experiential grip on its true proportions, the Grand Canyon is even more extraordinary. I plan to return again and again.

When we climbed out of the wilderness and returned to the hotel, I took a long hot shower, rinsing the wilds from my body, watching it slip down the drain, wondering how much had been absorbed in my open pores, how much I could continue to contain as the world on my cell phone exploded with messages calling me back.

I am a different person now. The Grand Canyon opened my heart and held it in constant beaming awe for all the days within and days after and still I feel the awe resonate throughout my mundane life.

Thank you, grandmother canyon.

Canyon Dreams: a poem

While standing in line at the post office or
checking off items on my grocery list, I remember back
to those nine days in the wilderness without watch or phone
when I had no time to reckon with. In the Grand Canyon,
time is as ancient as the shiny black Vishnu shist deep
in the exposed earth’s innards cracked open to the past.
Grandmother canyon cracked me open like a brachiopod
clam, revealing pearl for the first time to stars
through a slender slit of ribbon sky above mile-high canyon walls.
As if birthed into night from the belly of earthen core,
I floated through her canal along a raging waterway, frothing
and capable of swallowing me whole. Awakening vulnerable
and shy, she grabbed me and shook me alive, polished me
in her tumultuous arms into a grain of fine sand. This is where I met
the ancient ones. The ancient ones reach farther back, back they sit
on a throne in a cave at the base of the back of my spine and
hang gold emblems off my scapula like beaded curtains they clatter
and chime in hematite pictographs. I dreamt of hominids among
monoliths searching for a place to call home before snows fall over
nearby ice fields on the edge of inland oceans, their time spent in season
with Paleozoic dragonflies and ferns instead of clocks. An urgency
wholly different than my own contrived time, spent on Google calendars
and dentist appointments, clocking in and out of my day. Their time
is wide as muddy river, tall as rockface and waterfalls filtered blue
with travertine where I can swim all day and crawl over
river stones like chuckwallas when summer is full and lush and
the only rush is the river, the only place to be is under
the Milky Way, seen through the small crevice of sky above
snaking into sunrise.

* Kenton Grua is the famous Grand Canyon River guide from The Emerald Mile who captained the legendary speed run down the Colorado River in 1983.

Find a supplementary photo essay about the trip here: