HIking and river partners

Anyone going on a Grand Canyon river trip or hike, who is looking for a partner(s) to join them, lets start making this a resource. One step at a time.

HIking and River shuttles

Anyone offering hiking or river shuttles, please send your information to include on this new blog. Also, anyone needing a shuttle, let Jeffe know and I can try and get you in touch with the locals I know until we get more up on this site.

HIke and route descriptions

Interested in some of the hikes accessible from the river? Heard about a spot you'd like to visit? Ask here.

Questions about routes or runs

There are lots of river guides out there, which have some pretty good information about rapids difficulties, and some that explain the run in general. If you're new to the Canyon and want to inquire about a specific run, or if you're trying to "nail" a run you've had some problems with in the past, or just looking for a different way through, ask here. Just post a question and I'll try to answer.

Writings: The Havasu Flash Flood of 1984

THE HAVASU FLASH FLOOD
1984

The clients are tired. They smile and drip, standing ankle deep at the edge of the water, caressed by the sun. A cocoon of towering red cliffs and shimmering green cottonwoods rim our iridescent acre of plunge-pool, domed with a sky of indigo. Is this Mars? Maybe Jupiter? They fumble in daypacks for sandwiches, squirrels scatter.
Wearing nothing but my customary desert costume of shorts, running shoes, floppy straw hat, full-wrap mirrored sunglasses, and daypack, I consider howling like a coyote. Instead I concentrate on my rather crumpled salami sandwich.
My gaze ascends leisurely up the full height of the improbable turquoise waterfall to where it first arcs over the lip, nearly two hundred feet above. There are a few others here, non-rafting “civilians” who have climbed down from the campground above through a maze of dusty natural caves in the vertical cliffs. The route involves clutching rusty old cables installed ages ago by the local tribesmen, moving through frozen waterfalls of sculpted orange travertine stalactites. Those who can manage to speak do so in hushed tones, as if in a cathedral, leaving only the sound of water.
Destiny is at hand.
“What the ….” The words, whispered to myself, desiccate into the dry air. My smile does the same.
Appearing at the very brink of the falls, an uncanny presence, as yet unidentifiable. Is it part of the sky? I try to sort things out, like a wolf sniffing the air. A pressing blackness. Obsidian. Unmistakably monstrous, though I glimpse only its margin. My sandwich, still in hand, unconsciously droops to my side. I stand like a statue in a corner nave, gaze aloft.
A cloud? The question floats in my skull. Whatever it is, my skin tingles. My lungs suck in one long, deep draught of air. The body prepares itself. The mind has yet to follow.
This black behemoth is ponderously but surely moving down canyon. Towards us.

In the Great American Southwestern Desert, July and August are monsoon season. The towering afternoon thunderheads tumble in, edged brilliant silver and white in the blinding sun, bellies gray and somber, cast against a sky so painfully blue, grumbling and striking with flashes of raw electricity between firmament and space. Their immense atmospheric landscape dwarfs the stony one below. If it rains within your immediate sphere, the cliffs are painted shiny black or crystalline burgundy or molten silver, unending ramparts on every side glinting like jewels in the slanting rays of the sun. After the drama of the rain pouring down, filling the potholes of your senses, a glorious quality of peace swells, penetrating all space. Pure, unadulterated magic. Moments of speechless awe for some…discomfort for others. The river turns to chocolate colored mud, splattering everyone and everything—a slippery mess. A safe path through rapids becomes difficult to read, obscured and colored all wrong. Bathing is for the intrepid or desperately stinky.
For me, being in a monsoon in the desert Canyon Country is to be transported back to primordial roots, everything washed clean. Catching an elusive flash flood is akin to discovering buried treasure. Red or black or green waterfalls coalesce and roar down side canyons that may have been silent for lifetimes. A gift from the Gods. Mud sweeps everything in its path downstream, that much closer to the sea, swirling and cascading into oblivion. One must take great care not to join the detritus. Secretly I smile when the once mighty Colorado, Spanish for red-colored, returns for a time back to its pre-dam personality. Once the spray settles, debris is left perched in unusual places—high in treetops, jammed in cracks fifty feet and more overhead. People point and wonder at how that tree got way the hell up there…

If hiking a slot canyon—the sky a thin, meandering indigo thread directly overhead—we boatmen covertly, nervously sniff the air for the telltale fecund smell of wet earth, for something…different. Perhaps a peculiar sound where only the flawless desert silence existed before. Something in your subconscious whispering like a messenger…
The sound of water.
It is, of course, better to sense the whisper well before it becomes a clarion call. Guides too often tempt fate as it is. Personality trait. Keep an eye out at every bend for a quick exit route. Watch for a climbable escape crack as you slither between the vertical walls. Better yet—don’t go. Camp high. Keep your gear packed and ready for hasty gathering, especially your life jacket. Sleep on your boat, one eye open. Clear your senses with one neat shot of single-malt.
On the evening before we hit Havasu Creek on river trips, during the ritual pre-hike talk at “Last Chance” camp, the “peeps” are told to pack their lunches, watch for thieving ravens, choose their destination or no destination at all, preparing them for the much anticipated Havasu. This time of year, we also remind them of what to watch out for in a “flash”: pay attention to the color of the water, the quality of its sound, its scent. Maybe the crossings seem deeper, you can’t see your feet. Anything at all suspicious—head uphill fast and wait.

“Um, you guys?” Softly, calmly.
All faces instantly alert, concerned. Perhaps they are too used to my exuberance, noting the abrupt change.
“I think maybe we ought to eat as quick as possible, and then get moving back downstream.” I shrug my shoulders, deliberately not looking at the sky.
Pat, one of two women on the hike, wants more information.
“What?” Seemingly simple, but I know that tone of voice. She’s not going to let it go. Nor, on reflection, should she.
I point with my lips, Navajo style, up towards what I’ve now decided is either the blackest, thickest cloud ever imagined, or the apocalypse. All eyes look towards the menacing black beast peeking over the lip of the falls. All faces, save two, pale. They get it. Most of ’em anyway.
“Um…” Pat hesitates. “Is that a cloud, or what?”
I don’t answer directly. All watch the deliberations. I have my “professional” mask on. There’s that damn pause thing that always seems to precede something extraordinary in the offing. Like a chopper in the Canyon, it’s rarely good news.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. That’s the darkest damn cloud I think I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Probably raining like Noah’s flood somewhere upstream.”
As one they stand up, full attention now. In life, some are paralyzed by fear, some energized. We’ll soon see.
Closing my eyes, I visualize. Upstream a few miles it is bucketing. Hard. All that water, volumes and volumes of water, is hitting the hardpan and bedrock, sheeting off fast. It tumbles downhill, collecting mud and pebbles, then rocks and chunks of earth, into the natural creek bed which had minutes before been bone dry. It’s an irresistible force, the very force that, over the eons, created this entire landscape. It cannot penetrate the hard earth and rock, so rushes headlong downhill to hit the springs that form this perennial creek and mingle with the turquoise water and turn it into gooey, thick red mud. With endless supply from the heavens, it keeps growing and picking up speed and relentlessly sweeping everything in its path. At the moment, the “in its path” part includes us. I’ve been through a number of flash floods before. You learn the signs. This one is singular. I feel it in my spine.
I glance at some of their faces. “Don’t panic. Just be focused. Okay?” In my way, I pull my sunglasses down over my nose so they can see my eyes. My voice is dead calm. They find that somehow scarier.
“Don’t stop. Listen for a, uh, well, a “different” sound. Keep looking upstream, especially at crossings. Watch for a wave. Kinda like a beach surf only red. Sniff the air, see if it seems muddy. Don’t worry if you don’t understand what that means. You’ll know it when you smell it. You notice any of those things, run to the highest point you can. Fast. This is life and death, kids, I shit you not.”
Nobody moves. Eyes shift back and forth from my face to the growing cloud, trying to process the totality of instantaneous and absolute consequence. They’ve seen me scouting big rapids. The warrior’s calm welcoming of the contest to come. I mean business.
“And you?” says Pat.
Replacing my sunglasses, I look down, cross my arms, then raise my face back to meet hers. “I have to think. I’m supposed to be sweep. There are some other people here. I can catch you pretty quick. I need a minute or two to gather my thoughts.”
The “sweep” is the last, the one who has the repair and first aid, the one who’s responsible, on river or trail, for making sure nobody is left behind, all are safe, everything’s copasetic so the trip leader can concentrate on leading. I absolutely love being sweep, reliable backup, having time to smell the rocks. Legally, guides are only responsible for the people in their own group. Morally is a different question.
As one, they rise in silence, pack and leave. I notice some of the sandwiches have been discreetly put away, untouched.
I remain, pondering. Climb the cables up to the campground and warn them? Mostly these folks, freshly hiked in from their cars and unfamiliar with the sure consequences of Nature in the Grand Canyon, won’t believe me anyway. Run past my small group and warn everybody on the rafts downstream? Nope. I’m sweep. Anything happens to one of my guys if I’m ahead, they’re screwed. Surely everyone downstream has noticed that cloud? It’ll hit me first, however big it is. My right eyebrow rises.


Rowing into Havasu eddy early on the morning of day ten, the ritual begins. Get the “Moonies,” the long-hikers, off the boats and on the trail. They’re psyched, focused, and a pain in the ass. A guide leads them to negotiate the numerous and confusing ankle-deep creek crossings. Once they’ve left, the others can take their time, relax. The guides taking the day off are the harbormasters; after everyone finally leaves them alone, they will dally about, tie the rigs up well. It’s a sort of meditation. On this particular early July morning, there is only one other trip in the eddy, also from AzRA, the same company as ours. They’re on a trip one day ahead of us, but we’ve caught up. They must be planning on booking out the next couple of days on the high water.
I’m rowing my “snout” boat on this trip, so I enter the eddy first, tie up at the mouth, near to where the eddy line marks the boundary between Havasu Creek and the Colorado River. The others slide into the eddy, tie up to my stern, and string themselves end to end as my folks slide off the snout. The rigs wrap themselves tight into the eddy, leaving room for other latecomers to jam in. Lorna, who is taking the day off, is the last boat to tie up, jamming her raft tight into the hourglass-shaped vertical cliff at the far end of the eddy, where the creek enters. Nice and quiet there, nobody stepping over her, good shade all day. I strap up my oars, exchange my flip-flops for tennies, grab my daypack. Everyone is boat hopping, smiling, preparing for a wonderful day.
Glancing at Dave Edwards, my great big Georgian-Welsh friend, I wave farewell. He smiles his broad smile and turns his face upwards to the overhanging cliffs above our heads.
“Ever see anyone jump across?” he says playfully.
“Nope.”
“I saw Briggs do it once.” He shakes his head.
“Yeah, right. Six-foot-four and legs like Aspens. Not me. No way! Insane. See ya later, boyo. Enjoy your day off.”

It’s a good start. We leave the others fiddling with their packs and beating off the ravens. I’d prepared the troops the night before, keeping them focused on getting out of the hubbub so we could find our pace, not worry about stragglers. To sweat ourselves into the rhythm of moving through the desert. Destination oriented. We can meander back afterwards, catch what we missed. In oases like Havasu, well scattered and well hidden within the seemingly desolate landscape, you understood where the Navajo got their ancient chant “Walk In Beauty.”
The hike up takes about two and a half hours. The clients typically grow silent as the place sinks in. Halfway, more or less, we eat a snack, have a drink, and take some photos at graceful, stair-stepped Beaver Falls. They always want to stop there. But Mooney beckons. After Beaver, the magic gets wilder, the pace picks up. Everyone else stops at Beaver. From here on in its all ours.
Even after seeing it scores of times, Mooney still rocks me. As usual, I make them stop at a little spring just before we get there, partly to fill up their bottles, partly to increase the tension one last notch.
All stop several times at each little viewpoint, look at each other, back to the falls and cliffs, trying to comprehend. Impossible. Silence reigns, except for the sound of water. The pace slows, as if not to disturb something sacred.
As usual, they drop their daypacks, prepare to eat lunch, fumbling in their packs as their gazes are drawn upwards.
“Hold on, you guys.” My little ritual.
They’re a little confused. After all, we’re here, aren't we?
“Would you like to have a religious experience?”



I love running this trail. I usually give my folks about twenty minutes lead and don’t catch up to them until just before the waiting rafts. I’m in no rush to catch up just yet. This is going to happen, period. If I could be in two places at once, herding them along and keeping well back to gauge and keep watch, I would. While caught up in these thoughts, I stroll up to each little group of swimmers and point to the cloud, explaining there’s going to be a flood and they should probably get back to their camps and warn their friends, move their gear. They look at me like I’m some nut on the freeway, which is no more than I expect. I’ve done my best, and I leave them to their fates.
An inner clock has struck, compelling me to take off running downstream, free and clear of doubt. Glancing briefly over my shoulder from time to time whilst maneuvering amongst the grape vines and tangled trees, rocks, and crossings, I perceive The Cloud stalking slowly, inexorably down canyon, consuming the sky as if starving. There is unexpected color and movement just ahead. A bit stunned, I catch up with Bill and Ted, two of my six. I’ve only been going ten minutes.
These two came together. Their impatience with the rest of us sheep is palpable. They don’t need no one telling them what to do.
They’ve left the track and are standing waist deep in the creek. Lovely spot, nice little pool. Slowing to a trot, coming to an unsure halt poolside, I consider¬. They’re hot and tired, stopped for a dip. No harm—in another world. I glance up. The brute is closing in. Just upstream, all is obscured by a slanting grayish blur.
Be polite now.
“What’re you guys doing?”
“It’s hot,” Bill says, wiping his brow with a wet bandana.
“We’re tired,” says Ted.
“And the others?”
“They went on ahead.”
That part’s good news. I point upstream. “See that? That’s rain. Lots and lots of rain.” I emphasize every word, failing to keep sarcasm at bay. “Very soon a really, really big flash flood is gonna come down on us. You get that?” My arms are crossed in front of my chest; my sunglasses remain in place. “Did you hear me when I said you had to keep moving downstream?”
They nod, ruffled.
“Kinda like now.”

I watch them disappear around a bend. A glance upstream, gauging the advance, a glance around at the tranquility, soon to be rent. I again sort out all the alternatives, possibilities. Part of this is just procrastination. I don’t like them much. I’d rather catch them than hang with them. Besides, the imminent danger is so sublime. I give them another fifteen minutes, for fun making a bet with myself the exact point that we all four, they and I and the cloud, will meet. I find myself running once again, my mind a welcome blank. Nothing left to do but follow this chosen path.
The trail whirs by, taking my focus. The buzz of a cicada, the flurry of two birds chasing each other into a tangle of leaves, the warm odor of riotous vegetation. Everything. My feet rhythmically pad the earth, joining my heart and breath, providing a beat to the rising symphony. Everything is in readiness.



Tie-up ropes of all ages and descriptions are stuffed in the cracks in the cliffs of Havasu eddy, tied around small chockstones, and stained with the brown mud of innumerable past floods. One or two pitons are hammered into the rock for backup, and some very old rusty steel rings, bent carabiners. All of these are high off the water, a story in itself for the observant. The eddy water is clear and blue-green, the Colorado River darker, colder, flowing swiftly by into a small rapid. At the eddyline where they mix, swirls of mixed colors and temperatures whirlpool towards the river bottom deep below. Not a place to be unless you’re in a boat. Cliff upon tawny cliff ascend to touch the deepest blue senses can ken. Boats tied to anchors, to each other, spiderwebs of lines to achieve the common goals of keeping the rafts out of the way of incoming or outgoing traffic, and of giving people access to and from the rock shelf that serves for shore. A popular attraction, sometimes the boat count exceeds forty—boats of all shapes and sizes, a few big motor rigs, all so tightly packed at the height of the season that you could walk across without getting your feet wet. At the head of the cliff-bound eddy the creek enters through a narrow passage, just a bit too tight for an eighteen-foot raft. Occasionally cliff jumpers from upstream swim through the notch back to their boats and a nap in the shade.
I do Mooney as often as I can. Less people to watch out for. Usually the bolder, more adventurous ones. More appreciative, which is, after all, why I do this. They gotta want it.
Plus I get to see Mooney again. I get to swim across its Caribbean-blue pool to behind the falls, clamber along the rock ledge hidden just under the wave-tossed surface, the clients following, not quite comprehending why. A hurricane of spray blasting us back so we’re barely able to catch our breath. Then we’re diving through the falls, turning over on our backs and gazing up at the cascade stretching high above. A rainbow halo surrounds the brink of the falls, only visible from that exact spot in all the universe. We then drift, laughing our way back towards the island in the seventy-two degree water. A religious experience. You have to be ready for magic.



Bill and Ted stand at the edge of the cliff, cameras pointed at Beaver Falls. They are oblivious, ignoring my arrival. On cue, as if a curtain were falling, the first heavy raindrops pelt the dust at our feet. Hail the size of marbles—cat’s eye marbles, the big ones, like we used to play with back in Chicago—bombard us, sounding like applause.
“Ouch. Ooooch. Ow!”
Bill is bald. No hat. The hail is hitting him on the head and it hurts. He squints at me through the instantaneous maelstrom, looking miserable. Smiling, I reach for my straw hat and offer it to him. He grabs it and jams it down, scowling. He and Ted try, in vain, to thwart the hail and rain with canted arms and elbows, scrambling in circles and crying out, looking like monkeys dancing. Form and color just under the big cottonwood tree down there at the base of the falls catches my eye. Squinting against the hail and rain, tying a bandana around my head, I can just make out the outsized form of the baggage boatman from the other trip. He’s curled up on his side in the luxuriant grass, under the thick leaves, by all appearances asleep. Shouting in this racket is useless. I’ll have to downclimb the cliffs and get closer.
“Hey! What are we supposed to do now?!”
I turn towards my guys. Deep breath.
“Well. Looks like I’m gonna have to get Steve out of bed.” pointing to the shape down below, just visible through the torrent. How on earth is he sleeping through this? Damn big tree.
“I was planning on stickin’ with you guys from here on, but plans have changed.” I like this option even less than they do. “Just head down the switchbacks and cross the creek. And could you do me a favor, please? Could you just keep moving?” Sullenly, they move off. I call to their backs, “Remember what I told you about flash floods!” Then I turn to get Steve.
Climbing fast, I arrive under the shelter of the tree in minutes. Already soaked, I shake his arm, and in an instant he’s bolt upright, looking around, trying to place himself. Steve is a big guy, like a walrus. He was a paying client for several years running, until finally the owner gave him an unpaid baggage boat to row.
“STEVE,” I yell, “IT’S GONNA FLASH BIG TIME…COME ON! WE GOTTA GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” The falls adds to the cacophony.
He responds, “MOLEY’S GONE HIKING. HE TOLD ME TO WAIT UP.”
Moley, another AzRA boatman, is working the other trip. He’s sweep for their group.
I say, “I’LL WAIT FOR MOLEY. YOU GO ON AHEAD!”
“NO, I PROMISED I’D WAIT. SO I’M WAITING.”
“WHERE’D HE GO?”
“I DUNNO. SOMETHING ABOUT A SCARY PUPPET. “BEAVER MAN” OR SOMETHING.”
“HOW LONG AGO?
A shrug. “MUSTA FELL ASLEEP.” We’re both looking upwards, scanning the cliffs, hoping.
Moley’s head is screwed on good. He’ll figure it out. Think fast. This guy’s gonna be stubborn.
“OKAY. OKAY. CLIMB A BIT UP THE CLIFFS WITH ME. YOU CAN HANG UNDER AN OVERHANG AND WAIT FOR HIM THERE. OKAY?”
He consents. I plunk him down in a safe spot and take off, on a mission.
Two minutes down the track I nearly run right over the top of Frick and Frack, sheltering under a tiny overhang on the trail. Time is running out. So is my patience.
“What the hell is wrong with you two?!”
They are peeved, soggy, and now, at long last, apparently scared.
“It hurts!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The hail!”
“Okay. Fine.” I take a deep breath. My sunglasses are off, my arms fold themselves across my chest.
“Listen to me.”
Yep. Listening.
“I’m supposed to be sweep and now I’ve left someone behind.”
The hail stops, the rain pours on. A garnet red waterfall bursts over the cliff a thousand feet above, cascades from ledge to ledge, and finally plunges into our creek not thirty feet away. Another, and another, all along the scarp. The creek turns pink, as if the water were mixed with blood, yet it remains steady. Here, anyway. This will change presently.
“Oh! Oh my God!”
“Look you two. I’m gonna stay here for a few minutes. I gotta think. Then I’m gonna come after you. We’ve got three more crossings to make.”
“I thought there was four!”
“All we need to make is three. We can get back to the boats from the wrong side if we need to.”
They stand there. The creek alters color, chameleon-like, pink to red. The rowdy rain, the rising creek, the waterfalls, the wind, all combine into a deafening crescendo.
“If I catch you two again, you won’t have to worry about no flash flood. I’m gonna fucking kill you myself.”

Moley—ace river guide, trustworthy, capable, savvy, bald. We shared the high water last year, him playing his fiddle at the Crystal concert. No worries there. I stand protected by the tiny overhang, re-assessing, sorting, scoping. Really just an excuse to observe the dazzling show. Red-graphite waterfalls pour over thousand foot cliffs far and wide. Pour from every little notch in the Redwall, pour upstream and downstream, both sides. There is so much energy it’s hard to breathe. The river is starting to rise. A few inches, just a teaser. Not thick red mud yet, but….
Time congeals. I am running. One knee-deep crossing tells me what I need to know: the water is higher, maybe only by a foot or so. And it’s still coming. Steady. Another crossing. One more and home free. Half mile, more or less. Waterfalls and rain. The sound of water, of feet splashing, of breath, blend into a rhythm. My mind wanders, idiotically, to that Superman movie a few years back, the part where he outruns the train to cross the tracks.
Top speed and cackling madly, now. The excitement is like a drug. I wonder how fast a flash flood wave moves? Faster than, say, a man can run?
I howl. The sound is not as much drowned by the racket as absorbed by it, melded with it. I shake my head, demanding sanity, but it does not oblige. The conductor turns the page, moves his baton. I suck in my breath at the climax of the holy symphony.
Then—The Sound. Exultant roar of a lioness, triumphant crowd after a goal. More attitude than simply vibrations in air, it compels me to turn, still running. A surreal wave, foaming and single-minded and animate, appears a hundred yards upstream. The smell of earth and rich fecundity. It is freakishly slow, frothing and filling the space behind huge boulders, tumbling over drops, eddying, then rushing off again. Deliberate. Purposeful. The water just behind the crest improbably rushes at twenty miles an hour—an optical illusion. The laws of physics seem to require it to catch up and overtake the wave, but it behaves itself and does not. My head jerks from trail to wave and back again, gauging speeds.
Yup. No doubt about it. I’m beating it.
“No fuckin’ way don’t even think about it…Woohooooooooo…!”
I will play with it just so much, then head uphill and watch it go by. I swear.
The crossing comes into view a hundred yards downstream.
Bill and Ted stand midstream, backs to the wave, rinsing their fucking bandanas.
“SHIT!” Puff…puff. “GET UP THE BANK…!”
My legs cannot move any faster. I glance at the approaching wave, thundering like a freight train. The path is set.
“GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK…!” Glance back. “FLASH FLOOD…!” Seventy-five yards, fifty, glance back.
“FLASH FLOOOOOOOD…!”
Startled, they turn and stare—at me, not at their approaching doom. They start towards the far bank. Too slow. I hyperventilate, oxygenating my blood. Twenty yards. My eyes take in every rock, where my last steps must fall, where my surface dive will land. Last glance upstream. It’ll be close.
In mid-flight, just before entering the muddy blackness, I inhale and flick my head rightwards for one last glimpse. Then I’m underwater–oh, the silence!–and plowing hard before the image gels, and it is this: An explosion of red mud like a supernova overwhelms the ten foot high virgin white limestone boulder thirty feet upstream.
I have five seconds.
My feet hit the river bottom running, like in the molasses of a silent dream, my arms drag mud wildly, propelling me forward. Unexpectedly air once again touches my face, enters my lungs, the roar greets my ears. My guys stand facing me at what is just now the bank, but in two seconds will be ten feet deep and ruthless. Their faces are contorted, confused and angry. I grab their collars, feet scrambling to gain purchase, leaning hard into them, and shove. The moment stretches far into my future, my past. Into my story. Puppets and puppeteer. Not me and them; Life and not life.
They are flung backwards into a thicket of ash trees. I wrap my arms around the nearest, high as I can reach, no time to choose for stoutness. The wave takes my legs out from under me.
My tree holds.

“Oh….wow! So that’s what you meant by a flash flood!…”
A huge cottonwood tree, still alive and whole, leaves and branches rolling over and over, ponderously tumbles by. I gain my footing, glancing over my shoulder. The log footbridge from Supai Village floats by. Supai Village is ten miles upstream.



Lorna is napping in her raft, chocked into the hourglass. The wave will hit her first. Sharon, “Shay,” is on her raft, nearest the Colorado River at the far end of the string. Unfortunately, she’s also on the upstream side of the eddy, farthest from an escape ledge.
Barry Lopez writes about the Native Eye, how an Eskimo paddling a skin kayak across miles of Arctic ocean—no land in sight, all belongings and family members tucked inside, utterly dependant—must focus on the movement of his kayak towards his destination. Not tunnel vision, but crystal clear, absolute attention. The merest change in the familiar salty breeze, a wisp of cloud on the horizon, a flock of birds wheeling, and muscles and mind become taut, alert, calculating. Ready.
The canyon narrows as it enters the last few hundred yards above the boats; the wave responds by getting bigger. Much bigger. Shay’s glance is drawn upstream. Something is speaking to her. There is a presence over Lorna’s head. Towering, dark, alive. The wave of mud approaches.
“FLASH FLOOOOOOOD!!!”
Edwards will later swear he saw Lorna leap from a dead sleep and in an instant fly over the boats to safety at the far end of a dozen rafts, feet never touching rubber or frame. Fortunate, since The Wave engulfs her boat, straining, then snapping its lines and wrapping it sideways into the next, then both into the next, and so on. The lines thrum and stretch and snap, anchors pop out of cracks. Metal D-rings on the rubber rafts disintegrate, ripping a hole in one, causing it to deflate and fold in half underneath itself.
The rafts are now wildly bucking in the raging tsunami. Shay screams over the roar, “WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO?”
“CUT ’EM!” echoes from the cliffs.
For us guides, an unconscious hand-slap to the chest—just checking—is second nature in times of need Yep, her life jacket is on. (Why? Who can say. Nobody ever does that when hanging out in the eddy.) She draws the knife from its scabbard in her lifejacket and starts cutting lines. The whole flotilla is being ripped and contorted, held in the brunt of the torrent, but as lines are cut, it swings out, pendulums from my snout still tied to the far ledge. There guides gawk and scramble, grabbing life jackets and throw lines. Shay slithers and leaps across the lurching mass and gladly joins them. The boats now strain in the raging current of the Colorado at the head of a rapid running at forty-five thousand cubic feet per second. Off my single bowline.



The rain stops. I’m shaking with cold—that, and the shock of having death sit on my shoulder once again, only to leave me behind, once again. Sodden with mud, I stand amidst the trees, leaning against one. Steady now. It is good to feel the rough bark. Something solid.
Responsibilities. Moley and Steve are upstream. The Colorado is only a short hike away, maybe a mile and a half or so. Where are the others? For sure someone’s been swept away and drowned. Bill is shivering. I give him my rain jacket. He now has that and my hat. I must keep moving or I’ll get hypothermic. My gut aches for the others, and we have to get moving. I cannot, however, leave Bill and Ted (much as I’d like to).
The trail is now in the river, underneath all that liquefied mud. Downstream there will be parts of it exposed higher up on the bank, but for now we must crawl through catclaw acacia and Mesquite, small trees lovely to the eye from a distance, not so pleasant up close. After all, desert plants must defend themselves—not much to eat in these parts. Catclaw is rather self-explanatory. The thorns on the mesquite are different, long and straight, like IV needles. Our only route is choked with these. Waist height and below, prickly pear and fishhook cacti litter the ground. Blood leaks from countless scratches and holes, like we’ve been flailing ourselves in some religious swoon. I ignore Bill and Ted’s loud and constant complaints until they finally shut up.
Finally, we reach a section of trail above the flood. It has abated a couple of feet in the past half-hour. We’re getting strangely used to the clamor and feverish motion of red-brown water. Fish flop in puddles along the recently exposed trail. I mindlessly scoop them sideways back into the river with a flick of my foot as I hike; they bounce and disappear in a splash.
We round a corner and stumble into a small knot of clients. Huddled and cold, some sit on rocks, some stand. The men cradle their heads in their palms, staring at their feet. The women softly whimper, arms crossed for warmth or around their companion’s shoulders, comforting each other.
“Oh! It’s a guide! Jeffe! Thank God!” All faces look to me.
“Is everyone okay? Has anyone been washed away?”
“No. Everyone’s fine. But we we’re stuck! We’re cold and wet! And we can’t get back to the boats!”
“Nope. We’re fine.” I nod, as much for myself as for them. “We don’t need that last crossing through the tunnel. It’s probably underwater, but there’s a secret way back to the boats on this side, higher up. Used to be used by the miners back in the thirties. It’s gonna be okay.”
Acquitted. Off we tramp, the group chatting, newly lighthearted, me picking the way on the still partly submerged trail. I ponder my friends, my comrades, in the eddy.



Jane, a middle-aged client with ample breasts, sits on a rock midstream, a few hundred yards upstream of the boats in the eddy. She has stopped at the first creek crossing, just at the brink of a set of three stepped waterfalls, dropping about fifteen feet. Very pretty spot. She faces downstream, concentrating on removing pebbles from her sneakers. She stops, knots her brow, turns to see what it is that has tapped her on the shoulder…and is slapped off her perch like an insect, into muddy darkness.
Swept over the falls, violently tumbling over rocks and river bottom, she prays. Later, in her soft southern accent, she will tell the tale. “I knew I was going to drown. Then, God answered my prayers, grabbed me by my breasts, and tugged me to the surface so I could breathe. Then I was on the crest of a huge red wave, and I was headed into a narrow notch just choked with boats. Then, this tiny figure—I just know it was an angel—flew over the boats. I hit the first boat and I went back underwater. It was just black. I bumped and banged underneath those boats, and I just knew that was gonna be it. Then I felt myself swirling around and the water got really cold and I could almost see light. Well, I knew what that was. The Colorado. I was prepared to meet my maker, but this huge shadow appeared above me—another angel—and tackled me so hard it hurt. But that pain was a blessing, and I wasn’t gonna let go, no sir!”

My solitary bowline is taut, worried to the point of rupture. The guides stand, absorbing the outrageous scene, trying to wrap their heads around it. As always, some react swiftly, with poise and sureness; others follow.
The rope will only hold for a second or two. Lowry, strong, reliable, taking it all in like a cat, leaps onto the closest boat, followed by two young acolytes. The boys had been practicing the whole trip, clients observing their mentor—how he rowed, his stature amongst his peers. They crab crawl and clamber over the surging tubes and flailing oars to reach the three farthest outlying boats. Dave cuts the lines, yelling at the boys to grab rowing seats and hold on tight. The impatient current snaps the lines, releasing the rafts, all that pent up energy jerking them fiercely. They grab the oars and madly row their craft into the only existing eddy, against the cliffs below.
Suzanne also leaps. She’s wearing her familiar costume of flops, Navajo style print skirt, and lacey blouse, with her flaming red jumble of hair highlighting southwestern turquoise necklaces, rings, and bracelets. As Lowry cuts his boats free, she severs the straining line closest to her. A jumble of four boats, one half-deflated and all fully loaded, disappears around the corner, containing one determined woman.
This leaves just my snout and two other rafts, plus a clutch of guides feeling like cowboys on foot.
Dave Edwards stares downstream, worried about Suzy, his back is to the eddy. There is a shout.
“BOD-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Joel points. Time stretches, as it will. In one fluid motion, Dave turns. A shadow below the water’s surface resolves into an image: swirling hair. It is sensuous, a siren calling him, hair framing the silhouette of a face with haunting eyes. He dives, two hundred and fifty muscular pounds of resolve. On shore, eyes scan the water for an anxious second. Two seconds. Three. Four.
Two spluttering faces appear, noses just above the surface. Dave has Jane in the classic life-saving hold—turned away from him so she cannot pin his arms, his right arm underneath her armpit and across her chest, clasping his left hand with his right, locked in solid. He’s wearing his old, lightweight, comfortable (and useless) lifejacket. They get air infrequently, heads submerging through each wave. Seconds count.
Joel is lithe—a runner. His track is an uneven rock ledge. He wears flip-flops; he is encumbered by a life jacket and has a throw bag in his hands. Nonetheless, he hurtles over the terrain, pacing the swimmers, staring into Dave’s eyes. Waiting. They careen two feet away, but they might as well be on the moon. In an instant it’ll be too late.
In between repeated submersions, Dave spits and, with absolute clarity, says, “Hit me in the face, boyo…”

Whap! The rope appears, right between their heads. Dave, briefly releasing his left hand, stuffs the rope deep between his molars, clamps down, then locks Jane back in. They are traveling at ten miles an hour.
Others reach Joel and hold onto him, ready for the pull. One chance, one eddy. All comprehend the need for slack, a pendulum to take some of the force. Once they hit the eddy the rope will rip out Dave’s teeth and they’re goners.
Graceful as penguins, they swing in, are gathered ashore, and collapse into welcoming arms.


Downstream, Suzy gets to work. There is no urgency. She unties, then reties her rafts end to end, freeing her to row the tail end one. She hauls one raft’s deflated half up and over itself and ties it to the frame so it doesn’t drag in the water. She then loops all the spare lines into one nice, long coil on the back deck and aims for shore.



We come upon little pods of clients scattered along the trail. Their manner, and our greeting, is repeated. Each time I question, they answer—nobody swept away—until there are nearly thirty of us gaily tramping towards the river.
Moley and Steve appear, having escaped by climbing a cliff. He gives me thumbs up, eases into the sweep position. A few trees still float downstream, but the power is ebbing, still high and muddy but less troubled. We bypass the tunnel where the trail usually goes. Water is sucking through it like a giant toilet. We ascend the old mining track on the scree above, slowing in the steeper terrain. Weary faces concentrate on the loose footing. Not over yet. Clambering over a slight rise, I gain sight of the cliffs above the first crossing, supporting a rather colorful clutch of boatmen. All geared up, lifejackets on, throwbags in hand. Even from this distance, I see their worried faces staring at the water rushing by, expecting the worst. Rob, AzRA’s owner, glances up, sees me. Only me so far…and then, in an instant, I see the whiteness of a dozen faces staring at me. They stiffen, weirdly dressed and posed like mannequins—half bent, limbs akimbo, mouths half open, a river fashion display.
Decades later, Dave, hand clutching my arm as if he were there once more, would describe the mood thusly: “Boyo…it was…Chilling.”

Voices cannot overcome the bellow of rapids. Sometimes communication between one boat and another, or a boat and a swimmer, is critical, so river guides use hand signals. A pat on the head means “OK.” It’s a question-response sort of thing. One pat deserving another. Clearly, they’re expecting bad news. Unable to help myself, I smile, pat my head, and point with my other thumb over my shoulder behind me. They glance at each other, then back to me. One pats his head back, face puzzled, slowly rising from his crouch. Faces turn towards each other, mouths stir.
One by one, my herd tops the rise. The guides begin counting on their fingers. Someone produces a roster. Rob, pen in hand, checks off names. Smiles appear, backs are slapped.
Presently, Moley materializes, bringing up the rear. All accounted for.

Soon, we are yelling across the abyss. We cannot make ourselves understood over the roar of the floodwaters in the final narrows. Joel points downstream towards the boat eddy. Oh. Right.
Where a dozen boats were, there are three—my snout and two eighteen footers, swaying in the current.
“Wait’ll you hear,” someone shouts.
“Wait’ll YOU hear,” I respond.



Suzy attempts eddy after eddy. Each time her rear boat hits the undisciplined eddy line, the seventy-foot rig uncontrollably spirals back out into the current. Suzanne is strong and sure. She reads current better than anyone. As a woman used to working in a man’s world—and used to using finesse and skill, having a certain bond with rivers—she reprocesses. Considers. Drinks some water. Decides. She knows the river well and can visualize a place on the left where a slow current will bring her near some low cliffs without an eddy. She hopes the cliffs are mostly underwater, presenting a sloping shore. Her destination appears downstream.
Committing utterly on a singular day of utter commitment, she ships her oars, gathers the coils of line, leaps off the moving boats, and starts running in her flops and skirt amid the desert scrub. Her red hair flies. Desperately she seeks something solid to tie to. Nothing. Not a thing. Fragile cacti and small, loose rocks. Coils whip out of her arms, whoop, whoop, whoop, rapidly diminishing her options. The flotilla keeps moving relentlessly downstream.
There is a solitary large boulder at the terminus of the bench. She has tied a “monkeys fist,” a large, round final knot at the end of the rope. The last coil lurches out of her arms. She grabs the monkey’s fist and jams it into the lone crack in that lone rock as the boats pull it taut. Her hand is wedged into the sharply eroded limestone. The boats settle. There is now time to tend to her wound, cover the exposed raw meat, rummage for food. She tethers the boats to shore in a spider’s web of rope. It’ll be a while before others arrive.

Reserves are waning. People are wet and tired and hungry. It is getting late. Time for stories later; this one is still taking shape. Following a brief discussion, Moley and I set up our end of a Tyrolean Traverse. Joel, like myself an ex-Outward Bound instructor, sets up the far side. We share information as we work, watched by curious and anxious clients. There are three more rafts in the eddy downstream, plus a motor rig that happened by. They’d like to get going, get their own passengers to camp and fed. Tuckup camp is ten miles downstream.
The Tyrolean Traverse: A taut rope, fixed across some terrible abyss (naturally), to which climbers affix themselves in a sit-harness and slide themselves with pulleys from one side to the other. Exhilarating fun…for climbers.
I look at the thirty-plus people; they look back, suddenly startled. Darkness is descending, and the helpful motor rigger is getting understandably impatient. Usually, when training student climbers, I spend quite a bit of time on the particulars of knots, safety, technique. No time for that, now. I scan the huddled crowd, seeking the most squeamish. I gently lead her by her elbow to the taut line. Nobody speaks. I have her step into the improvised harness, clip her to the line.
Innocently, she asks “So, uh, what are we doing?
“Darlin’, you just hold onto this rope here. Yep. That’s it.”
And I shove her off the cliff.
It is a short distance to the other side, and before her terrified scream gets past her lips, she’s already in the arms of Lorna and Joel.
No savior appears for the others. Just us scraggly half-clad hippy guides. Gradually, efficiently, reluctantly, the rest follow.
The motor rig leaves. It’s a half hour by motor, an hour by oar, maybe less with the high water. There, at Tuckup, dry clothes, hot food, tea, sleeping bags, toilets, and normality await. Once all are across, Moley and I frenetically disassemble the gear in the last of the light. We toss the mess across to the others waiting on the ledge. They gather it up and turn to clamber over the ledges into the shadows.
Almost over. Then it hits me. I look over the edge, stand bolt upright and turn to Moley. He points a finger at me, scowling, and says, “Don’t you say a word. I ain’t sticking around to think about it,” and leaps.
He is lithe, but he barely makes it, all scrambling feet and arms, pebbles knocking loose and splashing into the dark water below. Silent and now alone, I shake my head, mouth twisting into a crooked grin.
Deep breath, jump.

We pile wordlessly into our boats and cast off. Floating along on the moonlit Colorado, cliffs drift by like sentinels. Small rapids are rowed by heart. The Black Cloud, having only barely reached the main gouge of the Canyon, has now entirely vanished, leaving an impeccable corridor of brilliant stars, like sea foam punctuated by the crescent moon, a pendant hanging on a necklace. There is soft conversation; we share trail mix. Each of us considers crag and sky and the essence of things. I listen to the sounds of oarlocks squeaking gently, oars dipping, caressing the water. Sweet music.

My ears hear Tuckup rapid. Not much of a rapid really—but in the dark with nine passengers on a snout? Catching eddies is a special skill, second nature usually. But sometimes they’re a bitch. Sometimes you miss one. In a snout, they’re pretty much always a struggle. Add current, weight, darkness… I really don’t need any more epics today. Downstream and to our right, dozens of little lights and dancing fires light up the cliffs like a Revival Meeting. It looks like a small city, all gaily lit up like that. I want it.
I set the boat angle to catch the eddy, glance over my shoulder.
What on earth?...are those fireflies in the water there?
In any case, that’s about where I need to be. I await my timing, pull hard.
The eddy, like a magnet, magically draws us in, much to my surprise. But there is more. I now see that my strong and capable fellows, chest deep in the eddy, have reached out, grabbed my boat, and pulled us in. A silhouette with a glowing Cyclops eye ties us up; others leap aboard, embrace me. One offers a welcome and fragrant bottle.
Relax, friend. You’re home now.
Not fireflies…
Headlamps. Reflected in the night eddy.
Boats and people—five river trips worth, spread out like refugees. Delicious smells drift across the dunes. Suzy runs up and gives me a bear hug. Her laugh is all the welcome I’ll ever need. I notice her bandaged hand. She shakes her head, smiling, points to the paddle raft dry-docked in the sand, on its edge and being patched by firelight. A crowd of boatmen, beers in hand, surround it, passing a bottle. Tired as we are, boatmen’s sleeping bags will remain lonely for a while yet.
“Everyone okay?”
She tells me of Jane and Dave and Joel.
“No way!” is all I can say. (This is all anyone says as I retell the tale in the years to come.)

Next morning, after sleeping in and re-rigging and breakfast, we separate, smiling and waving and hooting, and slide back into the current on our separate ways towards Lava Falls.
Lava is the largest whitewater maelstrom on one of the world’s most renowned rivers. It drops over fifteen feet in seventy-five yards. It is filled with boat-flipping holes, colossal waves, and bone-crushing volcanic rocks. It is now running high and furious at forty-five thousand cubic feet per second. Enough to make any river runner rather anxious.
We pass Vulcan’s Anvil: a shiny, black basalt obelisk sitting placidly, deceptively, a mile above Lava, dead smack in the center of the river. The core of an ancient volcano, once violent, the Anvil is now an altar, the serene recipient of wayward boater’s prayers and offerings. We float that final mile of quiet water, hushed and anticipatory, then round the ultimate bend.
Once again, we are met by the sound of water.

Writings: Sinyala Fault

SINYALA FAULT, GRAND CANYON, 1984

I glance back uphill at the slowly disappearing shape of Alan, where I left him perched on an overhanging rock ledge, sketching the remote and incomprehensible landscape visible from the tip of the Great Thumb Mesa. Part of the Havasupai Indian Reservation. It’s June, which is really a stupid time to be hiking in the desert, but I need some solitude, some exercise, some adventure. The deep azure, cloudless sky is held aloft by an infinite procession of descending plateaus, which disappear into a subterranean ribbon of shadow and promise–the river’s inner gorge. I am looking down upon this magic staircase from an even higher rim nearly eight thousand feet above the mighty pulsing sea somewhere off to my left. There’s a hell of a lot of rock out there shimmering in the heat.

I’ve been working too hard, and the usual politics are driving me crazy, which means I’m probably driving everyone around me crazy, too. So, I’m off for however long it takes to cleanse my soul yet again, ten days’ worth of food on my back, more if I need to stretch things, aiming for a remote and difficult route I’d been hearing about from knowledgeable sources. Crazy sons-a-bitches, like me.

I am about thirty or forty miles due west, as the crow flies, from Grand Canyon Village, where around five million visitors annually drive carefully to their appointed parking spots and gaze over the railings. However, unless you do have wings, to get from there to here is about six hours or more of tortuous gravel and four-wheel-drive, bone-rattling tracks. It is waterless—some hand-painted, weather-beaten plywood signs advise that all this foreboding sand and twisted juniper is owned by the local natives. A few bony Indian cattle straggling through the scrub seek an elusive blade of dead grass. At least it’s theirs.

Needless to say, there are no signs of recent traffic. The Great Thumb Mesa is an enormous peninsula of South Rim country that forces the Mighty Colorado River to flow north in a forty-five-mile detour around its four-thousand-foot descending scarps. Where it is finally allowed to flow west, then south again, the magical gouges of Stone Creek Canyon, Tapeats Creek Canyon, and Deer Creek Canyon face the tip of the Thumb from across the river, each side canyon deserving its own special notation in this vast geography. I’ve hiked several routes here before, though none solo, and none in June. All have presented wild difficulties of impassable cliff, plunge pool, barely-cemented scree, and dizzying exposure. All have also offered up evidence of the Hisatsinom, as the Hopi Tribe call their ancient ancestors, or, as the Navajo Tribe call these same people, Anasazi, their “ancient enemies.” Flaked flint and points, rock art, “Moki steps” that appear to the initiated in unlikely vertical cliff faces. I’d deliberately only scanned the maps, wanting to find my own way, needing the taste of being the first person in a long time to pass this way.

I wave to Alan, who doesn’t respond—he’s engrossed in somehow capturing a sense of this enormity on his canvas. He’ll return the way we came, in my beat-up Datsun four-by-four pickup, bouncing crazily along the track, sometimes right on the edge of space, a fifteen-hundred-foot drop to the Esplanade plateau below. Not many people venture here, even fewer drop into the abyss, following old Indian trails, which in turn follow fault zones, which offer up the few opportunities to descend towards the river for the two-hundred-and-eighty-mile length of the Grand Canyon.

My goal, this time, is not to reach the river itself, but to traverse the heads of some rather remote and beautiful side canyons within the main Canyon. My stroll is only eleven miles as the crow flies—probably over thirty-five as the human stumbles. I’ve floated by the mouths of these same canyons along the Colorado, hiked half of them, wondering what was around the next bend (another itch I must scratch). The relentless vertical element will also add another few miles to the journey, up and down, down and up, one way or the other. Another typical hike in The Canyon. One Hundred and Forty Mile, Olo, Matkatamiba, Sinyala, thence to Cataract Canyon, otherwise known as Havasu Canyon, and out and up through Havasu back to the rim, where my truck will, I hope, be waiting. Ten days seems more than enough for this distance. Anywhere else, a fit person might make that kind of mileage in just a few days. Here, however, treacherous obstacles are simply part of the seductive tension. Heading out miles-long canyons to get to the opposite side—to which you could have almost thrown a stone hours before—is not unusual. Mistakenly planning to eat lunch at a waterhole noted on the map might turn into a bit of an ordeal as you are stopped short at a three-hundred-foot cliff face. A good trick here in the “Big Ditch” is to take two maps, one topographic, one geologic. If you know the rock layers well, as I do, you can double-check your exact location, including elevation. You can, with care, also figure out what cliffs might come between you and your can of tuna.

There are rumored to be several natural bridges along this route, one of which is actually on the map. Plenty of water holes and springs have been inked onto my maps, and routes along fault lines through seemingly vertical cliff faces of Redwall and Muave Limestone layers are noted simply with a tentative jotted line. I’m going light: no tent, no stove, no fuel, minimal sleeping bag and pad. I’ll simply camp under an overhang if the weather moves in, an unlikely event during the pre-monsoon season. And knowing I’m on the Res, I’m not concerned about Park rules prohibiting open fires. I’m not all that great at following rules, anyway.

As I hit the bottom of the steep scree slope, the angle mellows a bit to meet the Esplanade. I’m feeling tired and hot. I drop my pack and lean down to grab my water bottle, and as I stand back upright, I become momentarily dizzy. Dehydration, my worst enemy, is tentatively knocking. I scan the horizon far above me; no sign of Alan, probably long gone. Not a soul for many days in any direction, including rafting parties, separated from me by miles of unscalable cliffs, even if they had an inkling I was here. I drink my Gatorade, thinking to myself to take it slow and easy the first couple of days until I’m back in shape. Been doing too much rowing a desk around lately.

The hours drift away as I pick my way around house-sized boulders, down short, broken cliff walls, checking my maps to be sure I’m descending into the correct canyon to reach water, and tomorrow, Keyhole Natural Bridge. It’s rough going in the hundred-and-fifteen-degree heat, but I’ve been there before. You have to push through and beyond the sweat, the heat dragging at your heels, feeling like you’re baking in a convection oven. Somehow, you have to twist your mind and spirit into sucking in the heat, inhaling the burning rock, shrinking your presence into your sombrero and sunglasses and worn running shoes. Going beyond insane into primal, focused intensity. Keep drinking, more than you want, enough to make your belly uncomfortably full. Don’t hold out and drink little slurps, hoping to defer the inevitable empty bottle, or you will dehydrate inch by inch until delirium sets in. Drink up, lads, and to hell with the consequences. That way, if you run out before you reach the next water source, the slow but inexorable decline will have been somewhat delayed. Perhaps the sun will descend to a reasonable angle before the full effect starts to hit you. Then, if need be—and if the terrain allows—proceed by flashlight till you hear the frogs. Dip your hands into the pool and bring the cool, sensual water dripping through your fingers, over your face, and combing through your hair and into your mouth like a gift from a harsh and insatiable lover.

Deep below some red sandstone Esplanade cliffs, in a narrow cleft, I hear them. I see the enchanting shimmers on the eastern wall as the descending sun reflects off of the pool. I’m not feeling too good at all, which is confusing—usually, I’d have overcome the barrier by now. I have plenty of food, so I decide to take tomorrow off, base camp here and day hike to the Bridge and back, read a little of A Farewell to Arms. Acclimatize.

I drink from the pool all night long, piss frequently on a nearby rock, splattering my bare feet. I dip Suzanne’s flowered Southwestern pattern bandana—her now-frayed gift to me—in the water and tie it around my neck once again. It keeps me cool, more or less. No need for the sleeping bag tonight.

I awake from bizarre dreams to the early solstice dawn, intending to start early and be back in the shade near the pool by midday. I still don’t feel so good. My urine is clear, and I wonder aloud, “Can’t be dehydrated. Hmmm, maybe it’s the opposite, and I’m drinking too much water?” I start off anyway, slowly, towards the intended geologic feature. It is well worth the effort.

The Bridge is a hidden treasure within other treasures—a fanciful passage created by water for its own delight. Descended from a crack or weakness from when this rock was formed eons ago, in the perfect place. The land rises, water flows—catastrophically from time to time—eating away at this promise until it breaks through, while leaving the more solid rock above in place. Each sculpted opening unique, sensuous—like finding a rainbow frozen in the earth. I take it in from various angles, exploring for artifacts under boulders and in small caves. I ponder its immensity, keeping in mind how small and insignificant it really is in the unimaginable context of The Canyon. Back at camp, I try to lose my worry in the book, to no avail. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what it is. Dehydration? The flu? Too much water? Not enough? What? Alan won’t send out a search party for nearly two weeks, and that’s enough room to die in. I hadn’t counted on this.

To those unfamiliar with this desert canyon world, it might seem a trifle melodramatic to talk of death at this point. It is difficult to describe the terrible realities of this unforgiving ecology, more so to explain why one would even want to be in it in the first place. Withering heat and dryness; tiny, ephemeral, well-hidden water sources; impenetrable cliff barriers at every hand, accessible only via barely discernible flaws hewn from solid rock a million years before, or along breathtakingly steep, jumbled fault lines. Human visitors since that time can be counted on one hand, perhaps two. Indescribable beauty and solitude, every step a discovery, a challenge not only to body but to spirit and will. A twisted ankle, a blocked path, and you’re on your own to solve the puzzle or perish.

Nothing to do but press on. The way I’m feeling, I’d never make it back up to the rim. Wouldn’t matter, anyway; only ravens and buzzards up there. It’s closer—and easier, I hope—to carry on towards Havasu. Slowly, achingly, I step from boulder to boulder, following uphill the dry stream course that has carved itself over the millennia by infrequent floods along the cracked stone of the fault line. It takes forever. Finally, after an excruciating climb, I reach the next saddle and rest. The view is dazzling, and thankfully it fills my senses for a time. I check my maps, slowly labor onwards. Down the mirror image drainage, following the Sinyala fault line on the map, down into the head of Olo Canyon. Here it is only six or seven feet wide, but over a hundred feet deep. It is tempting to try and save time by leaping across, but I refrain from that recklessness. Instead I turn left and head up-canyon a mile or so, then return to the fault line, my highway.

Drinking sparingly and seeking water in every pothole, trying to decide whether I need to drink more, or less, I head up the other side and towards my next destination: Matkatamiba.

The largest drainage off the Thumb itself, I’ve never seen “Matkat’s” head. This giant, named after a Supai chief, drains into one of the most delightful playgrounds in The Canyon at its mouth, where it joins the Colorado. A turbulent eddy, encircled by vertical cliffs at the head of a rapid, deters some. Those who persist, however, get to scramble up a smooth, marble-like slot, watered by a dancing trickle of spring water, to an amphitheater that manages to humble and hush. Further up-canyon, however, is no-man’s-land.

I’m feeling worse, moving slower. I finally reach the saddle overlooking Matkat, in dwindling light. The view makes me reel—it’s too big, too powerful. Mount Sinyala absorbs the rays of the brilliant Arizona orange-red sunset, cleaving the light in two and throwing shadows into the depths below. I lie down right there, my bed a spacious flat slab of sandstone left by some ancient sea, the only furnishing the perfect backrest of a sole, smooth boulder. Reserved seating. I’m too tired and ill to sleep, so I read on well into the shortest night of the year by headlamp, finishing as the stars begin to fade.

I also finish the last of my water.

I pack up in the growing light, leaving A Farewell to Arms under the boulder. I need to drop unneeded weight. This is crazy—it’s only day four and already trouble is manifest.

It’s too quick for trouble. I’m too alone for trouble.

It comes anyway.

I continue down along the fault towards the floor of Matkatamiba. The mouth of Matkat is a usual stop for rafting parties. Unfortunately, it is several miles and over a thousand vertical feet down to the upper valley floor, and then several more untracked miles and hundreds more feet of descent over crazy terrain, paved with house-sized boulders and jump-offs, to where boaters would be. I know there’s a trip due down there tomorrow, with my girlfriend Kendall guiding and her folks riding along. I hiked the lower part of the canyon from the river up to the fault years ago, and know it goes. If I can just make the bottom, I can simply head downhill and down-canyon until I hit the river, and await help. I can hitch a ride to the mouth of Havasu with them, or with any river party, really. Overnight on the river with good nutrition and perhaps a doctor. If I recover, I can hike out highly visited Havasu to the rim. If not, I can veg out on the raft and get a free ride out to the trucks at the take-out—Diamond Creek, a few days downstream. Under control.

An impassable cliff shocks me out of my reverie. The fault hasn’t broken a route through here. I begin to sweat early this day, and not because of the heat. I re-check my maps. Carelessly, I hadn’t closely inspected the fault lines drawn on this section of the map. The fault line changes to a dashed line here, meaning it goes underground for a distance. A curiosity, perhaps, to a geologist, but to me? No surface fault; no broken-up ground. No broken-up ground; no route through the Redwall. I’ve already descended nearly a thousand feet to get to this layer, and for the whole way I was surrounded by fortress-like barriers on either side. No way out but back, and up. I look back, shake my head, and begin the backtrack. Choices are few.

By the time I reach last night’s camp, it’s hot—really hot. I haven’t had a drink of water for hours, and I haven’t seen any sign of a spring. I’m trying to focus on the maps, make a decision while I still have the sense to make a good one. Considering my current record, maybe it’s too late. I scan the terrain, looking for a sign, but find nothing concrete. Finally, I decide to head up towards the head of the main canyon. It seems like the contour lines on the map are far enough apart in fits and starts to allow me access to Matkat’s bottomlands in that direction. Trouble is, the canyon is long. Very. About five miles extra, up and down steep scree, gaining and losing hundreds of feet at a time, with no marked water holes. Still, it seems my best option. I haven’t been that far up-canyon from the mouth, and don’t know if I can make the river. Once down there, I surely won’t have the strength to climb against gravity if I get cliffed out again. No choice. No turning back. Thus I lean, not eagerly, in that direction, keeping an eye out for signs of water.

In the Arizona deserts, like all deserts, if one knows the signs, one can find water—even in the driest months. This desert is not a Sahara moonscape. It has plants, scattered amongst the sand and rock, each plant taking just enough space to survive. Some of these plants need more moisture than others. The delicate and sinuous redbud bush for one. The cottonwood tree, with its tinkling applause for the welcome and gentle breeze, another. I may not be able to smell water like an animal can, but I can watch for these plants, perhaps hidden under a shady overhang or in a narrow cleft.

Time passes as I put one foot in front of the other, reciting to myself epic Robert Service poems about freezing in the Yukon winter while searching for gold. I’ll settle for water. I come upon another side canyon. It looks promising. Decision time.

Do I take the much longer route along more open territory, with less chance of deep potholes hidden from the desiccating heat, but more likely to access the bottomlands? Or, do I take the chance that this side canyon harbors a hidden route through, has some shade, and possibly a speck of water? I glance down. I can get into this little niche, but it will mean sliding down a steeply inclined boulder and jumping the last few feet to the gravel bottom. Once in, I’m not sure I could climb back out. Normally, I wouldn’t even consider taking a route I wasn’t sure I could backtrack, wasn’t sure led to an exit. But I’m getting a little close to desperate, and not thinking all that straight, besides.

I throw my pack to the gravel below. Committed. Then I slide and jump down, the clean gravel sounding like jamming champagne bottles into a cooler full of ice. I then heft the pack back on, and proceed towards my fate.

A half mile of twisting slot canyon brings the answer. My daze is interrupted by the absence of the sound of gravel crunching beneath my feet. A slate-clean, washed, flat rock surface leads around the next hidden bend. My bones comprehend its significance. The floodwater, which has carved this insignificant slot over the millennia, occurring maybe once every decade or century, but potentially torrential when it comes, carries these gravels and boulders along with it as it rushes into Matkat, joining countless other floods, thence to muddy the Colorado River. The gravels are deposited where the power of the current lessens, as in a slow-moving section or a plunge pool. They are swept away where the power increases, as at the top of a rapid, or, perchance, a waterfall.

Yup—waterfall. Dry, of course, but about six hundred feet high. Probably pretty spectacular when it’s running red after a storm. It is incised into vertical cliffs that continue up on either side of the notch for another four hundred feet, back up to the Esplanade. Far below but only maybe a half mile away in direct line of sight, in this same drainage, is a brilliantly lit pool lined with scattered cottonwoods. A taunt. The sun is coincidentally shining just at the perfect angle, making the pool look like a hole in the earth, with a blindingly bright sun shining back up at me from Hades.

I half-sit, half-collapse at the brink. It’s all over now. How embarrassing, I think—me, a longtime Grand Canyon guide, who should know better than to make all these stupid mistakes, lost, then found, mummified in the dry heat, eyes picked by ravens. Then, I remember my signal mirror. I could flash a plane. But I haven’t heard any planes. Maybe the flash will reach commercial airliners at thirty thousand feet? Oh, sure. I recall the other time I had to be flown out by chopper, years ago with my friend Drifter, on another multi-day fault-line hike. It was pneumonia, that time. If twice rescued, I’d be catching up with Elwanger, a guide who’s been airlifted out three times. Rumor has it one involved a steak knife, a bottle of whiskey, and a gluteus maximus. He’s the current record-holder. I’d like it to stay that way. Shit, I hope my ranger friend, Kim Crumbo, doesn’t find out. He’ll laugh his head off.

Okay. That’s it. I’m really going off my head now. Childish ramblings. Think, man, think. No direct sun here, cooler, but no chance to flash the signal mirror either. Stay here, find a comfortable nook, muse over your inconsequential life, sleep for eternity. Or, get off your fat ass and heave the pack on and continue on up and try to make it out or die in the attempt. At least that option offers some hope of salvation. Helps you retain just a little self-respect.

I will myself to arise and begin, once again, the backtrack, scanning the cliffs on either side of me, searching for a crack that possibly will lead out. I’m dizzy, confused. I feel apathetic and leaden. I’m sick to my stomach. Pathetic.

As I’m dragging myself along, searching for an escape—and a tomorrow—I notice a broken crack up the vertical cliff face to my right. I can’t get back far enough, or high enough, to see where it leads, but it looks like it goes, at least through the vertical part, about a hundred fifty feet or so.

Don’t let go with a hand until both feet are solid. Don’t move a foot from one hold to the next unless both hands are set. This is the ideal in climbing, one that is lost as the difficulty increases. Never lunge—well, unless there’s no other choice. Test your holds before depending on them, in case one breaks off, especially on sandstone or limestone, which breaks more easily. This is sandstone. Trail your pack on a rope, so it doesn’t pull you off the face.

I move slowly, deliberately upwards, jamming my hands and feet into the crack, watching for rattlesnakes cooling in its shade. I haven’t climbed much for years, since my belly operations required a time-out, and then I discovered white water. Somehow, though, my fingers and toes respond to primitive memory, and I inch along. I stop on a miniscule ledge and turn around to find myself scarily high. Exhilarating exposure, terrifying possibilities. I quickly bury my face in the rock, shake away the cobwebs, resolve not to do that again. I continue the climb. Before I’m aware of it, I’m scrambling up a narrow notch, the horizon above me lying back with each step to a reasonable angle.

I breathe deeply of this glorious world.

Then, in my peripheral vision—green! Not the dusty gray-green of the open desert, but a cool, crisp luscious green. A few steps to the left, and a twisted redbud comes into view beneath a dark, overhanging ceiling. Oh God, let it be above ground.

When I reach the bush and its overhanging, black-streaked ceiling, shady and cool, I hear the dripping. A solitary and meager blessing, emanating hesitantly from the unreachable ceiling above, striking a large triangular rock and evaporating in the heat almost immediately. This is going to take a while. I open my thankfully wide-mouthed water bottle, arrange some rocks at its base to form a reasonably flat platform for this chalice, and collapse into semi-consciousness next to it.

I awake sometime later to the dripping sound, about one every couple of seconds, now slightly echoing. I glance over to find a pint of water in the bottle and gulp it down in an instant. Replacing the bottle on its sacred pedestal, I fall back again, comatose. This goes on for several hours in the long, long day, until I’m finally able to think a bit straighter.

Now what?

Had I the sense to do my homework before embarking, I might have read this description from a previous traveler: “If you stay on the Esplanade and go around Matkat, expect the nastiest country you have ever seen. The rock garden valleys on either side of Mount Akaba are a nightmare. Stay low on the sandstone and avoid the shale at all costs.”

I proceed to the shale.

A mile of stumbling later, in this more open terrain, I see a contrail high in the sky and try to flash it. I can’t even see the plane, how the hell am I going to know if the flash hit them, or whether they’ve seen it? Then, as if by magic, a Red Tail tourist plane touring Havasu Canyon, some miles distant, hits the far ridge and follows it back toward the rim. I reflexively flash, and this time I can see the light strike the fuselage. The plane continues on and disappears over the rim.

I can’t go on. I’ve scrambled over and around innumerable boulders, going for at least a few miles towards the head of Matkat. I awoke from sleepwalking to find myself on impossibly steep scree slopes of loose rubble, clinging to apartment-sized boulders that in turn were themselves barely clinging to the slope. I floundered up and down ravines, washes, moraines.

I’m out of water again, worn out again. I can’t concentrate on anything but my next footstep. I find a tiny overhanging flake in the middle of a vast slope of rubble, just wide enough and high enough for me to squeeze underneath it, lying down, and get some shade. I lie here for a while, and drift off into childish fantasies of old comrades finding my body, shaking their heads at how I’d finally lost it. Lead flows molten through my veins— sitting on my chest, oppressive, radiant as a solar flare, even in this speck of blistering shade.

Then, another plane drones into my consciousness. Unmoving, I roll my head and blink to see another Red Tail tourist flight over the opposite ridge. I overcome the lead, stumble out of my gravesite, fumble with the mirror. Flash, flash, flash. In an instant, the plane miraculously tilts its wings in my direction, banking into a steep turn and heading right at me. I keep flashing for a bit, then realize I might be blinding the pilot, so I stop and just stand there, dumbly. He passes right overhead, not fifty feet off the deck. I wave my arms frantically. He disappears over the cliffs behind, and is gone.

Okay, I’ve been spotted. Nothing to do now but wait for the chopper. I think now not of the ultimate embarrassment of a desert guide being found dead in the desert, but the explaining I’ll to have to do about being alone in June in such remote and insane terrain. The embarrassment of having to call for help. Oh, well, I suppose it’s the better of the two options.

I wait, and I wait. The sun descends, yet there’s still no relief from the relentless heat. Hours pass, still no sign, and no more planes. My mind wanders again, more lost than its owner. Did they really see me? Of course they did, they detoured right over your head, dipshit. But why isn’t there help by now? Is there some other, more important emergency? Did the chopper crash? Did the pilot forget to call it in?

Finally, I decide I’d better not stay there any longer. My thirst, and the resultant desiccation of my brain have gone too far. If they don’t come after all, I’m screwed. I head off down-slope, angling towards the bottomlands of Matkatamiba, maybe a broken mile away. There’s a small side notch ahead that might get me into the main canyon. From there, it’s all downhill, assuming that the extra few miles I’ve come up-canyon don’t contain any more obstacles in the drainage. I hit the notch and head down.

My mouth set, blinking back eternity, I proceed dumbly in a labyrinth of stone concealing my future beyond each faltering step. Another corner, then, a vision of loveliness. Sheep poop. Spoor. Scat. Caca. Bighorn droppings, right there at my feet. The first in four days. Music to my eyes.

In all the treks I’ve done in The Canyon, my companions and I always seek the poop. Sheep are incredible climbers, leaping and scraping up and down seemingly impassible cliffs. They just love dizzying exposure, playful when on the edge. But, after all, these animals have hooves, not fingers and boots, and a human can pretty much be assured that they, and their lambs, will not be going somewhere we can’t. If you see their scat, you’re on a route that goes somewhere they figured was important, somehow.

The tracks grow more numerous, converging on an overhang just ahead. I smile to myself. Whatever it was that had me, it’s letting me go. I arrive to a muddy mess, not ten feet in diameter, teeth marks scraping the water-laden moss off the ceiling just five feet off the ground. Water seeps—just trickles, really, but more than sufficient—dribble down the back wall. It’s cool in here from evaporation and shade. The day is waning. I drop my pack, leave my bottle to fill in one of the dribbles, and head off downstream to see if I can reach the bottom of Matkat. I find the main exit easily, in just a few hundred yards. I return to drink and consider.

Lying there in the blessed mud, quenching my insatiable thirst, blissfully gulping iridescent green pollywog soup, I ponder the next move. I could wait here and see if a chopper does, at last, arrive. I could stay the night with this water and see if my condition improves. I could drink my fill, and head off down Matkat by moon and flashlight, hope there are no real obstacles between me and my destination, try to reach the Colorado tomorrow before the heat, and hitch a ride on a raft.

These musings are interrupted by the whopwhopwhop of a chopper. Very close. I poke my head out from under the overhang to glimpse the retreating tail of the Park chopper disappearing over the far wall. Hmmm….too late? I am now ambivalent about being rescued, having made it so far. Will they return this way before departing for good? Now that I appear to be over the worst, shall I continue, hope for the best and avoid the embarrassment of rescue? As I frantically try to make my mind cooperate in this decision-making process, I fumble for the mirror. Got it. Step out into the last of the sun in this slot canyon just as the chopper passes overhead on its last run. No need for the mirror—our eyes meet. It’s Mark Law. No shit, that’s really his name. Damn.

Mark is the kind of ranger people love to hate. He epitomizes the dramatic shift of ranger-hood from the friendly, helpful guy in the big green hat to the wannabe cop. The nazi with a gun and an attitude who shouldn’t be in a position to be helping either hardened outdoors-people or even dumb tourists in high heels. Once upon a time, the river rangers for the park, my friend Kim Crumbo among them, were respected boatmen. They had once been commercial guides themselves. They knew the ropes. They’d travel along with us, sharing our adventures and meals. They might gently but firmly suggest we strain the dishwater, wash our hands, pass the whiskey. The rules were there in the background, not shoved in your face as an excuse to release frustration or aggression. Times, unfortunately, have changed. During a recent public meeting, the new Park Superintendent angrily rebutted the notion that his rangers were nazis. It was at that moment I realized that indeed they were, or he wouldn’t have so violently disputed it.

I’ve known ol’ Mark since he got to the Park a few years ago. His actions had resulted in the firing of some guide friends of mine, for infractions without consequence. Things could’ve been worked out differently. Mark had been reported hiding in his boat in an eddy behind a cliff wall, taking down boat descriptions and guide names—guides who would later get tickets in the mail. No communication, no second chances. A coward, a cowboy, a traffic cop with a little dick in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Just the man I want to see.

The chopper’s motor, close but just out of sight beyond the rim of my little side-canyon spa, drops to idle. Clearly they’ve landed. A uniformed figure appears in a gully above, scrambles easily down. Mark saunters over, half smiles.

“How ya doing?”

“I’m sick, I think, and dehydrated.”

“Was that you who flashed Red Tail?”

“Yep.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s get outta here. Chopper’s nearly empty.”

Nice to see you, too.

I grab my pack and bottle and hop in. Mark adjusts my seat belt and we’re off, instantly and effortlessly above my personal trail of tears. I spot the gravesite, the dead-end canyon. Last night’s camp, with Ernest sitting under the rock, grabbing some much appreciated shade. Then we’re instantly over flatter ground, now just fifty feet below instead of a few thousand, having rimmed out in a split second.

Over the microphone, Mark asks where I came from, what my route was, what happened. I retell the tale, best I can. Offhandedly, he asks if I had a permit to hike here.

“No. I was on the Res. Mostly.”

He asks where I want them to take me, after they check me out back at the hangar.

“I’ll give you the number of a friend or two. Maybe they can come out from Flagstaff and pick me up. Just do me a favor. Don’t tell Kim. He’ll laugh his ass off.”

“No problem.”

We arrive at the chopper hangar in Grand Canyon Village not long thereafter. The paramedic checks me out, announces I’m dehydrated. No shit. I have a fever, too. Some fluid in the lungs. It looks like the flu or something. Mark is in the background, making phone calls. I overhear him behind the paramedic.

“Hi. Yeah, got a buddy of yours here. Not too good a shape. Needs a place to stay for the night and a ride….Okay, here he is…”

He hands over the phone. Crumbo says, “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time, Aronson?” and starts to chuckle.

I recover from what turned out to be the flu in two days at home. Three weeks later, I receive a present from the Park Service: a three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bill for the chopper, and a fifty-dollar ticket for hiking in the Park without a permit.

Not long after, out come the maps again. I’ve always wanted to see upper Tuckup, and autumn will soon be here.