Laugh Louder the Harder It Rains

     Four years ago today, my wife and I began a journey, a long walk north that has influenced us every day since. Here's to long walks, the insights they inspire, and the people and places they allow us to experience.  Looking back through journal entries from our time on the Appalachian Trail, here is one of my favorites . . .

     My feet hurt. My knee hurts. They do not simply ache.  They are not sore or stiff. They hurt. My feet are calloused and blistered. My heels are bruised and tender to the touch. Where the nail of my right pinkie-toe used to be there is now … well, I don’t really know what that is. My knee is swollen; I touch it with my index finger and can feel the fluid that has built up around my knee cap. One hundred and eight days, 12 states, and more than 1,600 miles of walking have taken their toll. I gently massage my feet and knees after another long day on the trail, mainly out of obligation, feeling guilty for what I have been putting them through. Sometimes I imagine them looking up at me and yelling obscenities, asking me what in the world I am thinking.

     As my mind drifts, I remember a story of a woman. She was also attempting to thru-hike the A.T., and, as every thru-hiker is at one point or another, she was asked the question, “Why are you out here?” Her reason was somewhat shocking. Shortly before starting her hike, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Her doctor had given her months, a year at most, to live. She said she wanted to be on the trail because every day that she was in the wilderness, every time she struggled to make it up a mountain, every moment of pain, every step, was another moment that she knew she was alive. I have found that I understand her answer a little more each day. It is when I am pushing up the last few feet of a steep climb — sweat completely saturating my shirt and pouring down my face — and just as I reach the

summit, I am greeted by a gentle breeze that manages to send a chill down the length of my spine. It is when I am bending down over the coldest, clearest spring I have ever seen, cupping my hands, and tasting its refreshing purity. It is standing atop an exposed ridge, trying to comprehend the magnificence of the sunset that is on display before me, and all I can do is throw my arms out wide and scream. It is waking up to the beautiful songs of birds and falling asleep to the soothing hoot of an owl. It is when it rains so hard that all there is to do is laugh. It is getting to wake up on the morning of our fifth anniversary and look at my wife asleep next to me. We are in our tent, on the Appalachian Trail, living out a dream that was just some crazy idea we began talking about when we were engaged. These are the moments that remind me that I am alive, the moments that remind me that I am blessed.

     A friend of mine once shared with me his analogy for life. He explained  to me this idea of how life is like a big sponge that is totally saturated, and that the harder we squeeze, the more life pours out onto us. I have thought about that image for a while now. Often times I have envisioned myself squeezing every last drop of life out of that sponge, squeezing so hard that it even begins to hurt. I look back down at my feet, realizing I have a new understanding of my friend’s analogy. Maybe they are not yelling obscenities at me after all. They are simply reminding me that I am alive. Maybe life is less about being comfortable and more about learning to thrive in the uncomfortable. Maybe sometimes we need to embrace the struggle instead of trying to find an easier way. As I lay back and slowly begin to drift to sleep, I think about the experience, the moments, and the adventure that still lies ahead. Such a gift life is. I hope I will always remember this truth. I hope I will always remember to live life ‘til it hurts and to laugh louder the harder it rains.

Fragile Beauty

     The flames from the fire dance back and forth with the slightest ebb and flow of the night air. It’s not even a breeze per say, but more so as if the desert is breathing, taking in and then exhaling long deliberate breaths as it slowly falls asleep.  The juniper and sagebrush crackle as they burn, their heat warming our outstretched hands.  It is not a cold night, but the crispness in the air is distinct, and the warmth of the fire softens its bite.  We stare at the fire, often for long periods of time without saying a word.  Its movement is so captivating, making me wonder if flames are what first taught man to dance.  

     There is no moon tonight.  From this high sandstone outcropping, where hours ago the vast desert was laid out before us, now there are only vague hints of the mesas and canyons that lie below.   The stars, so plentiful and brilliant, reveal the line of the horizon and the subtle features of the landscape that surrounds us.  Some of us begin to lye on our backs, relinquishing the warmth on our faces to instead gaze upon the grand display above.  Cassiopeia, The Pleiades, Orion . . . those and many more shine their age-old light down on us.  It is a humbling and inspiring thing to look and to realize that this light has traveled for hundreds or even thousands of years simply to meet me right here, in this moment.  As we look up at the endless array, I notice a student reach up with her arm.  Still lying on her back, she stretches out as far as she can, her fingers grasping into the night air towards the stars above.  After a moment she stops, letting her arm fall and rest again at her side.  I hear her take a deep breath, and then she says to me, “Bryant, I’m so glad no one can ever touch the stars.  That way they can never get messed up.”

     Beauty is such a fragile thing.  I have been blessed over the years with the opportunity to spend time in the wilderness with many students like this young girl, and whether male or female, early teens or late 20s, they have all taught me about the fragility within us. The heroine addicts and the meth heads, the girl who sells herself, the alcoholic, the ones who make themselves throw up, and the ones who cut; I’ve sat around a campfire and slept under the stars with them all.  Those same dancing flames have become blurred as my eyes well up with tears from stories shared.  I have spent many nights laying awake in my sleeping bag, trying to process the things I had heard.  Raped, bullied, abandoned, or molested, as the stories unfold and the brokenness begins to reveal itself, the behaviors begin to make more sense.  Anything to numb the pain.  Anything to fill the void.  Anything to make them forget. 

     I have no answer tonight. No wise response to this depth of insight from a 15 year old.  I am an ill-equipped instructor.  It is a humbling feeling.  Nothing I can say will make things right.  But out of that humility and inadequacy has come a realization.  People who are hurting often do not need answers.  People who are broken often do not need advice.  They need someone to feel the pain with them.  They need someone to sit around a fire and listen.  There is a time for saying and doing, but there is such deep value in simply being for someone.
     The chill in the air has become more pronounced now.   As I sit up, I notice our fire of flames is now but a pile of coals.  They still warm my hands when I bring them close, but looking at the coals is not nearly as entrancing as the movement of the flames.  I stand and take a look around at the huge expanse of darkness and silence.  The peace out here is something I shall never grow tired of.  “You’re just as beautiful as those stars.” I say.  “And nothing anyone can do or say can change that.  People can wrong us, they can hurt us really deep.  But just like those stars, they can never touch our beauty.”  Beauty, as fragile as it is, cannot be taken away or lost.  Often we simply need to be reminded that it is still there.

Exposed

    

     Clouds begin to appear, ever so slightly revealing themselves just beyond the next ridge line. In what was once an ocean blue sky stretching out to every horizon, clouds like puffs of cotton the color of charcoal are seemingly stacking atop each other with each passing minute. It is as if they have climbed up the backside of this mountain, now anticipating our meeting at the upcoming high mountain pass. The surrounding peaks are slowly becoming swallowed like boulders in a swollen desert stream, inundated by the rushing flood of dark churning clouds. As look up, my head unconsciously turns with my wandering, widening eyes and I realize this flood, this storm, has now encompassed me as well. In the fine line that exists between paralyzing fear and overwhelming awe, I find myself . . . exposed.                

     It is a place I have found myself many times before, and oddly enough it is a place that I long to find myself again and again. As someone who has spent the last 10 years working as a river guide, I have found that there are many parallels between the river and the trail, but none more special to me than those moments of exposure. Whether it be in the midst of chaotic whitewater or the humbling power of a storm, there is a certain sacredness in realizing you are in the midst of uncontrollable grandeur. Some of the most impressive, unnerving, and awe inspiring storms I have ever experienced happened while thru hiking the Colorado Trail with my wife last summer. Lighting bolts darted back and forth across the sky. Hail pelted us along treeless ridges, one day in particular assaulting us on four separate occasions. Rain fell in sheets, completely soaking us through multiple times. For the first time I can remember, thunder pounded so close and with such force that I felt it inside me, like my heart was the epicenter of this deep, echoing boom that was making its way to my fingertips and toes.
Immediately following some particularly impressive displays, Laura and I would eerily turn towards each other, eyebrows raised and eyes wide and round as if looking through a magnifying glass. We would not say a word.     

     While in the Weminuche Wilderness, making our way across an open, high stretch of trail, we found ourselves once again in the midst of the madness. It was just before making the steep drop into the Elk Creek drainage. Thunder bounced off towering rock walls, and the wind made the rain and hail fall horizontally. It was intense. Lightning began flashing all around us, to the point that it became impossible to tell which direction the storm was coming from or where it was going. We kept going back and forth as to what our next step should be. Do we hunker down and wait it out, or make a push for the Elk Creek descent and find some cover? No matter what we decided, what we did know is that there would be no spectating here. This would be felt.

     Finally there was a lull, just enough of a break to make a dash down into Elk Creek. The worst of the storm had passed, and as we made our way down the steep, winding switchbacks, we began to realize the rain had left us a gift in its wake. The sheer, vertical rock walls that line the sides of the drainage were now the birthplace of waterfalls. Every few steps seemed to reveal another one, thin streaks of water tumbling down barren cliffs. The following few miles became some of the most memorable of the entire hike.

     There is a deep truth in these moments of chaos and terror, in the awe and humility. So often life can be insulated and predictable. Whether physically, mentally, or emotionally, it is always easier to hold back. In the “real world,” we do not have to put ourselves out there. But in holding back, we miss out on a chance to learn a little more about ourselves. A large part of my passion for the rivers and wild places of this world is rooted in the fact that nature exposes me. In the torrent of storms and raging rapids, there is no place to hide. There is the element of risk. Not the vain risk that is taken solely for the sought after reward, but the humble risk of seeing what we are made of for our own sake. The humble risk of being ok with not having complete control. It is the humble, seemingly nonsensical risk of putting “life” on hold to walk 500 miles through the mountains. It is the risk of finding yourself in that fine line between paralyzing fear and overwhelming awe and realizing . . . this is sacred.

Desert Lover

     

    

      As the sunlight makes its way to my face, I can see my breath as it leaves my mouth and slowly rises into the crisp, cold air.  From atop this sandstone dome, my 360 degree view is uninterrupted.  Wilderness stretches out across the horizon in every direction.  There are steep, narrow canyons and broad, sandy washes.  Yucca, with their long, wind-battered stalks, cling to small patches of dirt, while the sweet smell of desert sage accompanies the slight breeze.  Mountains rise in the distance, the Henrys to the west and the Abajos to the northeast.  Directly south, the mystical and sacred Navajo Mountain stands alone.  It is a rugged place, this canyon country.  Vast and expansive, while on a high point like this one, it could easily be mistaken for endless.  The sun is cresting over the horizon to my left as the full moon slowly drops out of view to my right.  In this first light of morning, I sit suspended between these two heavenly bodies.  This is a magical place.  It is a place that I, as others before me, have fallen in love with.

     The desert is not an easy place to love though.  Upon first glance, many consider this expanse of red rock to be a wasteland, far too harsh to inhabit.  The canyons are too steep, the soil is too dry, and the distances too great.  Interestingly enough, these are some of the same character traits I have become so enthralled with.  There is an untainted beauty that lies at the heart of its ruggedness.  It is a deep beauty, the kind that is often felt before it can be seen.  Unrecognizable to the passing glance, it will not be found through the windshield of a car.  This is a beauty that takes time.  There is comfort found in the harshness here, a comfort that is birthed out of the uncomfortable.  To know solace, one must first know distress.  Here, I experience the blazing summer sun as well as the soothing shade a tiny juniper.  I feel the bombardment of sand filled winds and the encompassing peace of a still, moonlit night.  I know the taste of parched, chapped lips and the sound of a trickling, life giving spring.  Hidden seeps, where water slowly sweats its way out of rock walls, can be found throughout this land.  There are flowing springs to be tasted if one knows how and where to find them.  Potholes and tinajas, natural water jugs, lie waiting to be scooped with a cupped palm.  This is a dry land, no doubt, but it is not a barren one.  There is not an abundance, but instead enough.  The desert is a mentor in the ways of simplicity, reminding me of the importance of having only what I need.  These canyons are continually revealing to me the truth that differentiates between essential and extra.

     My wife and I have found ourselves once again following the floor of a winding canyon, exploring and discovering a new sliver of this land we long to learn.  Towering red sandstone walls engulf us on either side.  The leaves of the cottonwoods are a golden yellow, fluttering with the sporadic brush of the wind. Perfectly symmetrical splitter cracks run from canyon floor to rim, interrupting the otherwise blank vertical walls.  A passionate climber could spend a lifetime scaling the fissures found here.  At sharp bends are huge, amphitheater-like alcoves that have been slowly carved and shaped by the floods of time.  Sound reverberates off the rounded walls with a sharpness and clarity not to be outdone by even the finest of venues.  More proof that man still has a lot to learn from the earth.   We find ourselves at an unnamed, unmapped spring.  Crystal clear water is gushing out onto the canyon floor, spreading and forming smaller, braided streams that weave in and out of each other as they glade over the dark, sculpted sand.  Kneeling down, I cup my hands, bringing the clear, cold water to my sun dried lips.  We notice animal tracks spread throughout the surrounding wet sand.  Mule deer, raccoons, coyotes, a mountain lion; this place provides life for many.  Looking around while listening to the gurgling water, we notice figures drawn high on a ledge.  Staring more intently now, we began to make out human representations with arms and legs.  In other clusters, we see mixtures of handprints and spirals.  On the high bench above, remnants of a dwelling are now visible.  Simple stone and mortar walls, these are all the handiwork of a people long passed. These were the first desert lovers.

     Ancestral Puebloeans, Anasazi, the Ancient Ones.  Over time, I have been blessed enough to see much of what they left behind.  Cliff dwellings ranging in size from one room to fifty, kivas with wooden ladders leading down into the earth, and intricately decorated pottery.  I have found arrowheads and spear tips and the chipping beds where they were formed and have held 1000 year old sandals fashioned from yucca fibers.  We scramble up the loose talus for a more intimate view, flooded with feelings of wonder, excitement, and reverence.  I study the pictographs and petroglyphs while trying to imagine the stories they long tell.  Pieces of pottery and corn cobs were strewn next to the fire pit where charred wood still remained, as if it had been sat around, casting shadows on the wall the night before.  In the grass and mud mortar that held together stone walls, fingerprints were still evident from the day the mortar was pressed and shaped.  Staring at a set of these timeless impressions, I notice a slight inconsistency in the wall.  There is a small opening just big enough to fit a hand.  Not able to make out what is in the shadows of this nook, I blindly reach in.  Looking down at what I now find resting in the palm of my hand, I am nearly overcome with emotion.  The carvings on the handle are intricate and the tip chipped and formed of chert, the two pieces being joined together with pine pitch.  I held a totally intact, perfectly useable knife.  Suddenly, the gap of time that separated me from them seemed to dissappate.  I stood there, wondering who was the last person to grasp this tool?  Looking back down the canyon and off into the wild landscape stretched out before me, I felt as though I was taking in the same view as they had so many years before.  It was as if we stood there together, this family of hunters and cultivators, artists and dreamers, once perched high on this canyon wall.  More than anyone, these people knew this place.  Their understanding was intimate and their connection mystical.  The spring below was a gift from the earth, the full moon part of the heavenly cycle, and vastness and beauty of the land characteristics of the Great Spirit.  Were these any less true today?

     For this rugged, wild landscape I am grateful.  There is no pavement here to disconnect me from the land upon which I tread and no sky scrappers to incumber the view across the vastness.  In this desert country I am able to feel.  The harshness and the solace I experience here are humbling.  I am able to connect with what is and what was.  I realize and remember the gifts of the Great Spirit and the sacred quality if his creation.  Just as the sand seems to find its way into every nook and cranny, every crack and crevice, it has also made its way into my blood.  It has found its way into my soul. This land has fascinated and captivated the hearts and minds of many before me, and now I find myself as they did, powerless to its draw .  .  . just another desert lover.

A New Perspective

     

     We make our way along the New River's bank, cautiously stepping from one boulder to the next. Bundles of driftwood and debris are scattered in random pockets amongst the rocks and trees, evidence of the last high water event. Our boats are securely tied just upstream, near the end of a relatively slow moving flat-water pool. As we boulder hop further down stream, the chaotic mess of whitewater that minutes earlier existed just beyond the horizon of current is now coming fully into view. I discreetly glance at the facial expressions of the others, trying to gain some insight into their initial feelings without being noticed. Some eyes are wide, bouncing from place to place, over stimulated and not knowing what to focus on. Others are sharp and intense, glaring out at nature’s display. The once smooth, glassy water has now become a whirling mess of water crashing over rocks and waves that build and break and fill the air with mist. I position myself closer to the water’s edge and turn so that the river is at my back. Eyes now shift their focus to me, staring intently, expectantly. “So,” I say as I begin to break into a big, bearded smile, “this is our first Class V rapid. Let’s talk about it.”

     This is another day in our first week of guide training. These 15 people from their random walks of life and various parts of the country have all come here for one common goal, to become a river guide. As we scout, or study a rapid from the riverbank, I point out differing current lines and features. The trainees take time to look and begin to implement their “water-reading” knowledge, asking questions and developing ideas for how to run the rapid. We talk about hazards and the different pros and cons to varying routes. Scouting gives the opportunity for questions and clarification, something that can be hard to find time for in the midst of a rapid a few hundred yards long, containing 8 to 10 foot waves and a must miss feature known as the Meat Grinder. 

     As we head back upstream to our boats, I notice a few trainees stop to look back, trying to pick out the line or certain features from a slightly different vantage point. It’s interesting how what we see and the way we see things has a lot to do with where we are standing. The world can look completely different from a different point of view. There remains a lot for this training class to learn, with skills to be honed and a relationship with this wild and wonderful river to be fostered. But perhaps their greatest insight will be into a new point of view. A perspective that many people will never have. The view from the back of the raft, the perspective of a river guide.

Wetting The Dries

     A light fog slides its way in and out of the river’s gorge, drifting through the trees and then down to the water’s surface.   We push off from the rocky bank and drift as well, our path almost as unknown as that of the fog around us.  There is over 100 years of collective whitewater rafting and river running experience in this raft, but as we move further downstream, the six of us are not relying on our familiarity with the rapids.  Instead we are continually looking downstream, reading the water and paying close attention to what it is telling us.  The river often seems to disappear into a garden of car and house sized boulders.  It is a maze with different chutes and channels of water, some offering a runnable line over a steep drop and passage onto the next set of rapids.  Others simply lead to a dead end, allowing your raft to find itself atop shallow rocks where the water is no more, and now considerations must be made as to how to get back to try a different channel.

     Aside from finding ourselves stuck in one of the previously mentioned channels, being out here on the New River “Dries” is quite the treat.  The riverbed itself is gorgeous.  Though the six of us have each paddled this section of whitewater many times before, no one had ever seen it at this low of a flow.  As we move through boulders standing 10 and 15 feet overhead, we reminisce and trade stories about times we had paddled this section when those same rocks we completely submerged, creating huge waves and hydraulics.  We joke about how we had never noticed the beauty of the cliffs, the waterfalls, and the natural arch like we were today, largely because at high flows we were white-knuckle paddling for our lives through a rapid aptly named Mile Long.

     Not only is it a treat to simply experience this rarely paddled section of whitewater, but today we are also getting to be a part of what could be the next step for the whitewater industry in the area.  For many years now, this part of West Virginia has been famous for its commercial whitewater runs on the New and Gauley Rivers.  But now, with the Hawks Nest Dam approaching its relicensing date, there is an opportunity to establish a new stretch of whitewater for commercial rafting.  Though still in its early stages, this trip down the “Dries” marks the beginning of a feasibility study which will help determine what flows are viable for whitewater rafting.  The ultimate idea is that if we can determine what our necessary flows are for boating, and then during the relicensing process those flows can be factored into scheduled releases, similar to the scheduled releases we enjoy on the Gauley River.  In the not too distant future, a whole new stretch of world class whitewater could be available to take people rafting down, giving us even more opportunities to share the beauty and the thrill of paddling these special places. 

First Trip Back

     I pull the strap through the buckle, tightening down the last bit of equipment into the raft. I check my gear once more . . . carabiners are locked . . . my PFD is snug. As I look out on the gentle current moving by, I can hear the trip leader finishing up their safety talk behind me. I take a long, deep, deliberate breath. Every spring, there is always that “first trip back, ” and with it usually comes some nervous energy, an anxious anticipation. But this year’s first trip carries with it a little more weight. I have been thinking about this one for a little bit longer than usual.

     Last year my river season came to an abrupt end in the form of a dislocated right shoulder at the bottom of a Class V rapid on the Upper Gauley. Thanks to friends and fellow paddlers, I was safely evacuated from the river. While on the river bank, guides used their Wilderness Medicine training and were able to reduce the dislocation. Although there were moments of extreme pain, what was actually more intense was the creeping thought that my shoulder might not ever be the same. The off season consisted of 7 months of rehabilitation and strength training, working to regain full range of motion and mobility. But even after all the rehab and the winter paddling and the fact the my shoulder was feeling really good, I knew that none of it would compare to that first trip back. It was not only a physical hurdle, but more so a mental one that I knew I would have to face.

     One of the most important lessons I have learned from my years of guiding and spending time out on these wild rivers is the importance and the value that exists in pushing myself both mentally and physically. There is so much that can be realized about oneself through the act of taking risks. For the last 11 years, I have had many opportunities to be a part of other people pushing themselves and taking risks as well. Guiding my guests down world class stretches of whitewater and seeing how empowering it is for people to engage with nature is the most rewarding part of my job. There is something that exists in the wildness of a river and in each of us that often does not get tapped into in everyday life. It is what I come back for year after year. It is why I find myself rigging this raft and standing at this put-in this morning.

     Hours later we have run the last rapid and are at the take out. The boats are loaded and high fives have been given all around. I can hear the boy scouts and troop leaders reliving their day as they get on the bus. I look out on the gentle current moving by and take a long, deep, deliberate breath. This has been a good first trip back.

Rowing Into Obscurity

     Sitting with oars in hand, our 18ft. raft holding 23 days worth of gear begins to pick up speed. All I can do is wait. The roar below is almost deafening, though all I can see from this vantage point is the current in front of us forming into small ripples and then disappearing as they drop off the horizon line. Violent spurts of water shoot straight up into the air beyond in the distance. This is Lava Falls. We drift closer and closer to the entrance as the current moving us faster with each passing second. I take short, choppy strokes with the oars, just trying to keep us on the line I have chosen. There is a strong eddy to my right, and I know that if I allow even the slightest bit of it to touch my boat, it will take us too far right. Just downstream and to the left holds a huge recirculating hydraulic that will flip us instantly if we hit it. There is a fine line, and like every other rapid on the Grand Canyon, it is all about the entrance. It is in this moment when time seems to slow down. It is in these moments when time almost stops. There is nothing else but me and this powerful expression of nature below. My focus becomes so defined and heightened. Everything seems to move in slow motion. In the midst of the surrounding chaos and rush of adrenaline, there is a sense of peace and calm. Over the next few moments, I will taste a tiny piece of what has created this place.
     It was day 17 of our 23 day trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, and so far, all of my expectations had been exceeded. Pushing off from Lee’s Ferry on day 1, the sense of excitement and adventure was almost overwhelming. We were entering one of America’s last great wilderness areas. As we drifted out into the current, looking back towards the put-in would be our last sight of a road of any kind for 230 miles. We were a group of 16 river guides who all worked together in West Virginia, and for 280 miles, we would be totally self-sufficient, carrying everything from sleeping bags to satellite phone, tents to toilet. As we made our way deeper into the canyon, we were awestruck by the flowing waters and cascades of Vasey’s Paradise, Thunder River, Elves Chasm, and Deer Creek Falls. We explored and scrambled up side canyons called Nautiloid, Nankoweap, Shinumo, Tapeats, and Blacktail, and we stood in disbelief, staring at the milky blue waters of Havasu and the Little Colorado. All the side hikes and canyons alone would have made for a phenomenal trip, but in addition to all this, there were the rapids.
     The rapids of the Grand Canyon are some of the most famous in the world. Unlike other rivers that are narrow, steep, and technical, the Colorado river is wide, carrying a large volume of water, and creating rapids with huge, intimidating features. With names like Hance, Horn, Granite, Hermit, and Crystal, they are each beautiful whirling explosions of whitewater. Each has its own dangers to avoid and moves to make. On the ninth day of the trip, we took a layover day just above Crystal Rapid. I spent a large part of the day sitting on the rocky bank staring out at the huge waves and features of the rapid. Strong hydraulics, boiling eddy lines, and waves standing 12ft. from trough to crest. Trying to take in all the dynamics and features was almost overwhelming. I found myself looking at the rapid in both awe and disgust, seeing in it beauty as well as terror. Throughout the years of working on and experiencing different rivers, these interesting contradictions seem to continually present themselves. How can whitewater be so beautiful and yet so terrifying? In the midst of such chaos, why is there a sense of peace? How is it that I can feel simultaneously humbled and empowered? All of these contradictions collided in the heart of Lava Falls.
     Lava Falls is the biggest rapid in the Grand Canyon, and one of the largest raftable rapids in the world. Its features are huge. There is a hydraulic known as the “ledge hole” in the center at the top. Running this would result in a sudden and violent end to your raft being right side up and you being in it. The right side of the rapid is monstrous, consisting of multiple 10 to 16 foot tall standing waves, the infamous “V-wave,” and a rock at the very bottom right known lovingly as the “cheese grader.” The idea is to enter moving from right to left, going just to the right of the “ledge hole” but continuing to move left, missing the “V-wave” and staying away from the “cheese grader.” The difficult thing is that almost all of the current is pushing hard to the right. As you approach the rapid, from the boat you cannot see anything below but horizon line until you are within a few feet of the “Ledge Hole.” Sound like fun? Here’s how it went for us.
     By us, I mean myself, wife Laura, and our friend Alyson. I took the oars, Laura was coiling our bowline and pushing us off the bank, and Alyson decided to document the run by shooting some video. This was a brave choice, considering that having one hand hold the camera left her with only one hand to hold the boat. As we made our way towards the top of the rapid, I focused on the horizon line created by the “ledge hole” and a tiny bubble line that was moving out from the top of the eddy on the right as I mentioned earlier. That bubble line would lead just to the right of the “ledge hole,” into a 7 to 8 foot standing wave. As we got closer, I saw the wave and began rowing hard straight towards it. Ideally, I wanted to hit it and keep my momentum going left. The roar got louder and louder. As we came to the very top of the rapid, I saw the wave in front of me, the “ledge hole” just off to our left, and the chaotic mess off whitewater beyond. I rowed hard into the wave. When we hit it, I felt like I had run into a brick wall. I was not expecting the wave to pack that much punch. It knocked me back, immediately turned the boat sideways, and sent us to the right, drifting straight for the “V-wave.” As the classic rafting description goes, we lost total control at the top and never recovered.
     Looking over my right shoulder, I saw the infamous “V-wave” below. The difficult thing about this particular wave is it is literally shaped just like a “V” that is pointing straight downstream. It is actually two separate waves, crashing into each other. So no matter which one you try and hit square with the nose of your boat, you are bound to hit the other one with your side. At this point, I quickly try and pull with my left oar in order to at least bring the tail of the boat around so we do not go in totally sideways . The next few seconds were a blur. As we backed into the heart of the “V-wave,” I remember suddenly being lifted up into the air. The next thing I knew, my feet were above my head and I was diving head first into the middle of Lava Falls Rapid. In the midst of it all, Laura and Alyson, who were sitting directly behind me, are having their own little adventures. When we hit the “V-wave,” Alyson was tossed from the right side of the boat, over the top of Laura, to the left side of the boat, and halfway out of it. Laura had somehow managed to hold on, and when she realized that I was gone, she lunged for the oars to try and gain control of the boat. I am not sure what I grabbed on to, but in an instant I was able to crawl back in the boat. I went to grab the oars, and simultaneously, the three of us must have looked downstream, because in unison we all immediately yelled “High-Side!!!” We were drifting sideways into a 15 foot tall wave right next to the “cheese grader.” We all knew that without our weight on the downstream side of the boat, we would surely flip. All three of us scrambled onto the downstream tube and held on tight. We hit the wave dead sideways. As the boat crested over the top of the wave, it stalled for an instant. I took a deep breath. I thought we were flipping for sure. They say the average run through Lava Falls takes only 20 seconds, but depending on the run, it could be the longest 20 seconds of your life. Nothing could have been more true.
     For whatever reason, our boat did not flip. Once we came over the top of that last wave, I jumped back in my seat and grabbed the oars. There was still work to be done. We had to get over to the eddy at the bottom right of the rapid. Our boat had gone first, and we need to set safety for the other boats. There were a couple other people who fell out while running Lava that day, but out of our six boats, all stayed upright. Sometimes, that is all you can hope for. Lava Falls humbled me that day. It reminded me of how little control I really have. It is one of those interesting contradictions. When nature’s grandness is on display, I feel content in my obscurity. I am reminded there is no point in seeking to conquer or subdue a river and its rapids, or any aspect of nature for that matter. One should only hope to experience them.

Reflections

     Could I ever grow tired of a sunset, that mystical end to each day? Could it ever loose its awe, its peace? The last rays of sunlight making their way across the horizon, lighting up the cliffs facing their descent, shadowing the mountains and mesas in the distance. This earth, pure inspiration to embrace. When God was done, He saw that it was good. I think maybe He underestimated himself.

                       

     Another picturesque morning, waking up underneath the sprawling arms of a cottonwood, the sun slowly creeping over the horizon of slick rock domes. Down in this canyon, there is still a chill in the air left over from last night, but as the sun’s rays reach my face, I cannot help but want to crawl out of my bag. The morning is so peaceful here, so calm. All I hear are the chirping birds starting their day, and the rustle of leaves as a slight breeze passes through them. The contrast of their bright, vibrant green against the surrounding red rock is beautiful, pleasing not only to my eyes but to my soul as well. This land of canyons has fascinated and captivated the hearts and minds of many before me, and here I sit as they did, feeling powerless to its draw.

The sun slowly slides behind a distant western ridge, its purple, pink, and orange glow still lingering in the evening sky. The colors bleed into one another, making it impossible to discern where one begins and another ends. As I lean back, sitting against the moss covered trunk of a downed tree, I can feel the warmth from the fire on my face. The flames dance from side to side with the ebb and flow of a crisp spring breeze. I take another sip of fresh pressed coffee from my mug, savoring its rich, dark, earthy tones, savoring this moment as well. The stillness is intoxicating. The crackle of the fire, the wind in the trees, and the soothing hoot of a nearby owl all add to the sense of peace that is gently infiltrating my body and mind. I let out a deep, long breathe, my eyes slowly close, and it is as if every muscle in my body exhales with me. After another sip of coffee, steam rises from the opening in the lid of my mug. My eyes follow it upwards, and I now notice the half full moon directly above me and the handful of stars that have begun making their heavenly positions known. The branches of the trees are raised and outstretched like arms, praising and welcoming the darkening night sky. A better script for the day’s end could not have been written by even the most talented of play writes nor reproduced on the grandest of movie screens. There is no substitute for nature. Creation cannot be outdone. I sit in humble awe. The crackle of the fire, the wind in the trees, and the soothing hoot of a nearby owl. I am blessed to be a witness.