Rafting the Rolling Thunder: Roaring twenties kept us dancing on the water

 By Frosty Wooldridge

                     “A man whose emotions are alive, is at home anywhere.”

                                                                                  Saul Bellow

                The day started out calmly enough.  We had floated 19 miles yesterday without incident.  We broke camp and were on the river as the sun crept up the canyon walls. 

                I thought about camp last night and how everyone was beginning to get into the flow of the river.  The ‘Dish Fairies’ had succeeded in washing all the dishes without hurting themselves.  A few mice had attacked some trail mix plastic bags left unprotected.  In the morning, a half dozen ravens dropped out of the sky and tried to grab any piece of food that was in sight.

                The ‘Groover’ had been set up in a nice place on the river with a view both up and down the canyon.  I have never enjoyed a more tranquil moment of repose in Nature’s paradise.  I had asked Gary why the shitter was called the ‘Groover’.

                “On one of our trips,” he said.  “We forgot the toilet seat that we place over the ammo can.  Everyone who used it for their morning constitutional got a long groove down the back of his or her butt and legs.  Thus, it became the ‘Groover’.”

                “Makes sense to me,” I said.

                Not far into the river, the first set of rapids reared its frothing, furious head.  The 21-mile rapids started what is known on the river as, “The Roaring Twenties.”  Every fifteen to thirty minutes, we found ourselves embroiled in raging white water.  There was no time to rest or relax.  The river dropped us into its wildness at every bend in the canyon. 

                At one point, Badger and Steve headed into the rapids and rode high on a wave.  Over half of their raft belly shot into the air and they were on the edge of disaster.  Steve sat on the front of the raft hanging on for dear life when his legs shot skyward like two ‘chicken wishbones’ and Badger’s yellow oars flailed helplessly in the air.  The boat nearly capsized, but just as quickly, it returned to earth none the worse for the ride.

                “YEEHAAAA,” Steve yelled.

                Everyone yelled at the near catastrophe.  It was great fun.

                Between bouts of excitement, we drifted through astounding geological beauty.  Our journey carried us through dramatic layers of millions of years of sedimentation.

                Major Powell wrote:  “The limestone of this canyon is often polished, and makes a beautiful marble.  The rocks are many colors—white, gray, pink, red, and purple with tints of saffron.  It is with very great labor that we make progress, meeting with many obstructions, running rapids, letting down our boats with lines from rock to rock, and sometimes carrying boats and cargoes around the bad places.”

                At 24 ½ Mile Rapid, we paid tribute to Bert Loper, 79, an old time river runner who died at that rapid in 1949.  Sitting in the raft, I knew danger and death lurked just over the side of the rubber buttress, but here was a guy who actually MET his death on this rapid that I was going over.  It was good that he died doing what he loved and especially at 79 years of age.  It meant he had a full measure of life before passing on to the next great adventure.  A lot of guys joke that they want to die in bed in the arms of a younger woman.  But the fact is, most of us would rather die doing something heroic.  Maybe not even heroic.  Just doing something we love.  That’s the way I want to go—on the racquetball court, ski slope on a 25 inch powder day (at the end of the day, of course), or on the dance floor, or on a bike tour around the world.  When it’s my time to go, I want to be filled up with so much life that I’m satisfied that I’ve done all I could do.  I want to be sick of living and be ready to check out.  One thing is for damned sure and that is, I won’t be sitting on my ass watching TV.  I won’t be in a nursing home.  I won’t linger.  Like Jack London said, “It is so much easier to live placidly and complacently.   Of course, to live placidly and complacently is not to live at all…I live like a meteor in the sky…going places with a blazing tail…not a sleepy, comfortable planet…no, I will not prolong my life, but I will live every moment.”

                It’s good for my spirit to know there are others who lived full measure.  I remember my grandmother telling me, “You’re burning the candle at both ends…you’re always going MUCH too fast…slow down.”  She didn’t realize that my candle is longer and my life speed is normal for me just as a Peregrine falcon’s speed is normal for him and a donkey’s is normal for him.   When I finally check out, whether it be on this trip on Lava Falls Rapid (which could kill any of us) or I get killed in the car on the way home, I KNOW I did the best I could to live full measure.  In my life, there are no ordinary moments.  There’s no need or time for being average.

                What is ‘the next great adventure’?  When Charles Lindbergh died, he said, “I’m ready for the ultimate last flight into the next adventure.”  What did he mean? 

                I think I know.  I think death is a return to nothingness with the possibility of renewal through some other flight plan.  When I die, my body will go back to the earth.  It will become inert again as in, ‘ashes to ashes’.  It will have no meaning and it will be as if it never was.  My energy of what was ‘Frosty’ will dissipate into the universe without meaning or personality.  It’s why I will be cremated and have my ashes thrown on a ski run so I can ski for eternity.  But no matter where my ashes go, I’ll be picked up by a flower for sustenance and possibly be food for a bug that is food for a rodent who might be food for an eagle.  At some point, I might be the eye of an eagle and be soaring across the sky, or hell; I might stay a mouse.  It doesn’t matter because it could be anything creative and living, or my ashes might stay meaningless.  No matter what, I won’t ever be me again, ever in the universe.  This is a one time shot at living.  I think life on this planet is a fluke, a cosmic joke, a meaningless miracle, but I’m going to keep squeezing the hell out of it with every waking moment.  I chuckle at all those who think they are going on to some place like ‘heaven’, so they discount or put off their enjoyment of this ‘real’ life–the one they have here and now.  Life! It’s a ton of fun.  Turn frustration into fascination; Never in neutral; Lean into life.  When I do go, I’ll go with a big grin on my face.  I had a ball and danced with some beautiful women.

                Down through 24 ½ Mile Rapid, we lived.  Old Mr. Loper died.  That’s life. Let’s get on with it.  We floated through Jurassic, Mesozoic, and Pleocene eras.  As we drifted further into the canyon, the sandstone walls rose to 2,500 feet.

                At one point, we floated under a huge cave in the canyon wall about 200 feet up from the river.  Stanton’s Cave as it was called was blocked off because it held Indian artifacts and many had been looted.

                At noon, we floated around a corner to see the canyon wall lit up with sparkling diamonds that seemed to be moving down a cliff face.  Below them, a lush green garden with red flowers gave contrast to the red rocks dominating the area.   The closer we got to it, the clearer it became.  It was a giant geyser spouting clear water out of a red cliff wall.  A Bridal Veil Falls rushed down the red rocks—creating a jungle of plants and flowers beneath it.  Birds flew in to refuel their bodies with fresh water and bumble bees danced among the flowers.  It was incredibly beautiful—an oasis in the middle of this baked canyon desert.

                “This is paradise,” Sally said.  “It’s so beautiful…it’s like a dream.”

                “Yeah,” Julie said.  “And you’re in it. Vasey’s Paradise.”

                “Not a bad place to be,” Gary said.

                Major Powell wrote when he saw it, “The river turns sharply to the east and seems enclosed by a wall set with a million brilliant gems. On coming nearer we found fountains bursting from the rock high overhead, and the spray in the sunshine forms the gems which bedeck the wall.  The rocks are covered with mosses and ferns and many beautiful flowering plants.  We name it Vasey’s Paradise, in honor of the botanist who traveled with us.”

                We filled the water jugs and prepared lunch on the rocks near the falls.  Later, we rinsed the rocks and sand clean of all foods so as not to leave anything that might harm the animals or have then start depending on human food.  The key to so many people moving through the wilderness was to “LEAVE NO TRACE.”   So far, I had only picked up two pieces of litter.  That wasn’t bad, because usually, when I go backpacking and camping, I pick up dozens of pieces of trash.  It never ceases to astound me that people can travel through such beauty and leave such ugliness in the form of cans, glass, paper and plastic.        

                At mile 33, we floated around a bend in the canyon to see Red Wall Cavern.  HUGE describes it.  On the bottom of a 2,000-foot canyon wall, the river had cut out an amazing amphitheater.  Major Powell estimated that 50,000 people could be housed inside it.  I’d estimate that 20,000 could be fit into it.

                From deep inside the amphitheater, the view was megaphoned outward into a dramatic display of the river, canyon walls and sand.  A rock concert would have been a hit in such a place.

                Along the canyon, we drifted past large caverns in the walls that had water seeping through the cracks which created elegant columns with green plants growing and what looked like solariums on the sides of the cliffs.

                Julie read her book.  Gary had sat back and was lifeless under his river hat.  The oars were set into the side of the boat.  The other boats floated up or down river from us.  At that time, I looked around me.  I saw silence.  An imminent quiet pervaded the canyon.  As I sat there, it was profoundly evident to me that we were out of civilization and into the heart of Nature’s pulsing rhythms.  Stillness.  Heat.  Quiet.  A serene feeling settled into my ears, mind and body.  The quiet reflected off the canyon walls.  It bounced off the still surface of the water.  It calmed me.  I was neck deep in ‘rivertime’.  No clocks, no news, no paper, no Tom Broken Jaw, no ads–only Nature.  The outside world might be on a tear, but on ‘rivertime’ there was only the moment.

                We camped on a high pitched bank and took a hike up to Saddle Canyon. It took us 45 minutes with a gain of 600 feet.  We hiked along a narrow path that lead higher up the side of the canyon until it dropped back into another canyon and onto the floor of a little stream.    We followed it along a verdant path of jungle with lizards scampering hither and yon.   As the darkness neared, bats flitted about grabbing their evening cashe of bugs.  Steve saw a big lizard, which he pointed out to us.  It must have been eight inches with colors like a Zebra.  Soon, the canyon narrowed further and we made our way through rocks, sand and across the stream.   Still, the walls closed in on us like a horror movie.

                At the end, we waded through some rock dammed mini lake until we crawled over a VW sized boulder and came to the end where we saw a 30 foot two pronged waterfall back against the fern covered rocks of the canyon.  We took pictures with water pouring down on us as if we had a personal shower in the wilderness.

                We hiked back to camp in the quickening darkness.  Our view of the canyon was one of mist and profiles.  The sky turned gray with slashes of pink bouncing off the canyon walls from the ebbing sun.  Far below, the eternal river—still worked its magic on those 1.2 billion-year-old rocks.  Not only was the river working on the rocks, it was working on my spirit.

                Once again, the four women chefs worked their magic with a dinner fit for a bunch of kings.  It was four women to eight men.  Gary had cooked up steaks and baked potatoes on his grill.  Salad refreshed us.  Gary shared a surprise with a baked cherry pie from his Dutch Oven.  It was hard to believe that we were eating so well so many miles from a refrigerator!  But Brenda had a meal plan for three times a day.   She worked it to perfection.

                Strat got out his guitar and Wocniss grabbed his harmonica.  He sang a song about love being like a toothache.  While they were singing, the conversations turned to the day’s events. There is no question that we are the sum of our experiences.  What we’re doing is usually what we talk about.  After talking with all three brothers, I was convinced that they were all riverboat captains in a former life or they were Vikings who voyaged around the world. It was in their blood to be on the river.  Badger said he’d love to have enough money to be retired and raft every river around the globe.  For an electrician, he carried a charge for living while floating on the river. 

                With each succeeding conversation, all our personalities emerged. Even Ivan, who was usually quiet, was a MOST engaging man when he started talking about his passion for the wilderness and animals.  He wanted to start an Alpaca farm, and you know he will do it.  His lady, Brenda, a physics and geology scientist was deeply concerned about the environment.

                But then, there was a call that went out over the din of the campfire, “Where are my dish fairies?” Brenda said.

                Within moments, there could be heard a flapping of delicate wings somewhere on high, near the canyon walls.  Three slight figures, one with a baseball cap, another with a jungle hat and another with no cap but the beginnings of a salt and pepper beard with a bit of a paunch around his mid section–SUDDENLY appeared out of the darkness.  As they landed, a slight thud could be heard around camp from their tiny little feet hitting the sand.  Being shy, they stood near the camplight hanging on a pipe secured to the kitchen table.  Looking at them reminded one of the ‘Three Stooges’.  In their shorts, one had long streamlined legs (that would be Steviness), the second had long skinny legs like a giraffe (Frostiness), and the third had a short, stumpy, bowlegged pair (Rickiness).  Their wings immediately folded back into their shoulders.  Fairy dust sparkled on their childlike eyes and fell onto the sand.

                “We’re here, Brenda,” they called softly.

                “You know what to do,” she said.

                The Dish Fairies set about their task.  Seconds seemed like minutes and minutes seemed like hours, but soon, the dishes magically were cleaned and vanished into the kitchen box. 

                As if in a dream, the Dish Fairies wiped the tables clean and set the last dishcloth out to dry.  Moments later, they spread their delicate wings and lifted off into the night to go where all Dish Fairies go after their job was done.  But one of them muttered as he flew out of sight, “Hell, Steviness, that old witch Brenda isn’t paying us enough for all this work.”

                “Shut up Rickiness,” Frostiness said.  “It’s a livin’ ain’t it?!”

                “I hate working.  In my next life,” Rickiness said, as he flapped his wings vigorously to gain altitude.  “I’m gonna be a lawyer.”

                 ##

Excerpt from: Rafting the Rolling Thunder: Journey through the Grand Canyon by Frosty Wooldridge, copies 1 888 280 7715, Kindle, www.Amazon.com  , www.frostywooldridge.com