Part 15: Rafting the Rolling Thunder--How fast our lives sweep past

 By Frosty Wooldridge

“It rains!  Rapidly little rills formed above, and these soon grew into brooks, and the brooks grew into creeks and tumble over the walls in innumerable cascades, adding their wild music to the roar of the river.  The waters that fall during a rain on these steep rocks are gathered at once into the river; they could scarcely be poured in more suddenly as if some vast spout ran from the clouds to the stream itself.”

                                                                    Major John Wesley Powell 

                                                                                                 1869

It rained today while we floated on still waters.  There were few rapids, which gave us time for quiet reflection.  When the sky broke gray in the mid afternoon, the temperature plummeted to 70 degrees.  The first rain drops sprinkled us, but soon, the sky opened up and drenched the landscape.  It wasn’t a harsh, wind driven rain, but a serene one.  The drops plunked on the water creating a silvery sheen of mist.  Each raft in front of us looked like a colorful toy winging through the gray mist that looked like a ground level fog from dry ice.  The only action was the rhythmic swing of each set of oars as they dropped into the water and rose again.  It was as if my eyes were watching a dream unfold in the mist ahead of me.

            Yesterday, we had stopped at Pumpkin Springs, which was a boiling spring that had formed into a pumpkin from travertine deposits being built up over time.  We ate lunch and enjoyed the scenery.  Everyone started talking about life back in the big city.

            Our camp on the last night at mile marker 220 had been like an Oasis Island with trees and beach leading down to the river.    As usual, the guys started a bull session on Badger’s boat.  On an earlier expedition, they had nearly run up on Lava Falls before scouting it—and joked about their near disaster from that mistake.  It sure was easy to laugh if you lived through it.   

            Soon, Brenda, Cindy and Sally walked over with crackers, cheese, beers and snacks. 

            Laughter prevailed.

            Up river, the last falls we had run rendered a muffled roar.

            Now, it was only four miles to the Diamond Creek take-out.  I looked back at Gary as he oared away with happy abandoned.  Our 16-day run was coming to a close.

            It’s amazing how fast our lives sweep past.  Whether I’ve been on the front end of a ten-month 8,000-mile bicycle ride across an entire continent or a two-day ski trip—it always comes to an end.  Just like John Wesley Powell’s.  He wrote what I’m writing in his time and it was alive and real for him at that point in time.  Now he is dead.   His moment passed.  Mine is still here and all those who share it with me on this trip.

What I’m most thankful for is being fortunate enough to have been able to go in the first place.  Like John Muir, I will always stand in Nature with a sense of wonder, awe and gratitude.

            Before the take-out, one last rapid awaited and did not disappoint.  I hooted and hollered with water soaking me as usual.  Gary just smiled.

            Up ahead, Diamond Creek Mountain struck a sharp triangular point into the sky. 

            Before we knew it, a flurry of activity on ‘river left’ was taking place with rafts being inflated and people running about the landing.  Our transport truck awaited us on the gray rocky gravel.  The only way out was a dusty road that cut up through a canyon that led to Peach Springs, Arizona where our cars had been parked by a transport agency. 

            We hit the beach and began breaking down the rafts.  A man in a truck backed up and helped us put all our gear in place.  For one last moment, the 12 of us got a group photograph along the river.  Moments later, we boarded a bus on our way to pick up our cars and head home.

            As I sat by the window on the bus, my mind raced back to that first moment of meeting everyone at Lee’s Ferry.  At that time, I was clueless.  It was just another raft trip.  A river was a river.  What was the big deal? 

            The BIG deal, as I found out, was that this river cut through one of the most phenomenal geological masterpieces that this galaxy has ever created.

There are few ‘last’ frontiers on our crowded little planet—Antarctica, the Matto Grosso Jungle of Brazil, the Congo, parts of Siberia, the Galapagos Islands, the Great Barrier Reef, the Outback of Australia and this vast, timeless, majestic canyon that stretches across time.  I’m glad I rafted this one.   I’m glad Hance terrified me.  I thrilled to the power of Horned Creek and Upset Rapids.  And, I met my fears by running Lava Falls.  The heat, sand, scorpions, mice, bats and butterflies—all were a part of Nature’s gifts to every one of us.  Yes, there are more rivers to run and more mountains to climb.  Indeed, life sweeps past much like a river and we humans are an ephemeral blink on the landscape.  Nonetheless, I’m thankful to the universe for my moment in this ancient canyon of time.

I’ll count this adventure as one of the ten best in my lifetime.  And, although it is over–it remains in my eyes, mind and spirit for the rest of my life.

                                                        THE END

Rafting the Rolling Thunder: Journey Through the Grand Canyon by Frosty Wooldridge, www.amazon.com , www.frostywooldridge.com , Kindle, copies 1 888 280 7715