Preparing for a Grand Canyon expedition was a big project. After a seven-year permit wait my brothers: Tommy, Bobby, Ricky and Billy, were joining me for an 18-day reunion through the famous gorge. Best friends were coming from Alaska and locally. Anticipation was at a peak.

For 72 hours prior to leaving, my house was a nest of continual activity. Assignments were given and gear gathered or built as needed. Menus (864 individual meal servings) were worked over. Raft gear littered the back yard, food piles stood stacked everywhere. Personal items found nooks and crannies. People slept all over both house and yard.

Two hundred and thirty five miles of red rock cliffs, shiny black inner gorges and myriad side-canyon excursions await the adventurous not-so-few who make the river journey down the Grand Canyon. Many who make the effort believe quality of fun is proportional to existing risks, against which all preparations are made. However, as with all of life’s challenges, “shit happens” now and then.

Only Moments Before

Destruction of our canoe brought despair and humility. The ABS Explorer lay in the cold brown water, the right gunwale crushed and splintered, the center thwart floating freely, the hull torn to its keel. No longer holding the canoe afloat, the vinyl pillows of float bags bobbed on their strings like tethered balloons. We were anguished campers.

Only moments before our strokes were as of silk. The canoe glided in swooping arcs across the river currents. We switched sides simultaneously. Our paddles sent little whirlpools behind us with each stroke. Swiftly we paddled the width of the river, then pivoted the canoe and set off on another tack. We anticipated each other’s moves, paddling smooth and spiritually.

It was our fourth day on the Grand Canyon and the first time on this trip Ira and I had paddled together. Multi-colored canyon walls dwarfed the river. The sun shined warmly into the chasm. As we approached the deafening Kwagunt Rapid our adrenalin pushed. My brother’s journal read, “Big rapid coming up. Pulling into shore to scout. We haven’t scouted a rapid in many miles now - this thing just drops out of sight around a bend and makes a hell of a roar.” Our party’s rafts pulled into the left bank a half mile above the rapid and the little boats landed closer.

The Chosen Line

Ira and I quickly scouted the rapid. On the left, numerous “holes” of booming water crashed back in on themselves. Below the holes, four- and five-foot waves continued for a quarter mile. To the right an interesting rock garden shut off any route possibilities. Seething with excitement, we agreed on a line which looked challenging. Old paddling partners, Ira and I were elated at the prospect of our first Grand Canyon rapid together. Donning our life vests we hastily prepared to shove off, impatient for the run.

Upon leaving shore and slicing our wary into the main current, our hearts sank. The chose line disappeared, lost below us in that mumbo-jumbo of rocks and water. We knew we’d blown it and shared a brief, but very empty feeling. As in Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth, the accelerating current pulled us toward our fate. Now that we were pretty low on our totem pole of calculated options, would all our past years of experience pay off? A moment later among the rock garden we had to start making choices. One of us had to provide leadership - neither did.

Before us large rocks loomed up, with pour-overs sluicing between them. To the left roared frothy holes, like giant Pac-men waiting to eat us. To the right more rocks. From our angle we could not tell what lay beyond. Before us a four-foot pour-over squeezed between two boulders. I decided for the slot. Ira chose left. We broad-sided the rock.

The Opportunity for Self Rescue

As the canoe rolled upstream to catch the full weight of the oncoming current, I relied on experience and good fortune. Chet be nimble, Chet be quick, Chet jump over the candlestick and into the cauldron below. Wood cracking loud as a gunshot sounded above the river’s roar. Ira pulled the canoe with him as he went around the rock’s left side. The 45-degree water didn’t bother us too much, we were dressed properly.

The opportunity for self-rescue was upon us. Ira was swept downstream of the boat. I remained upstream, from where I could not see him. The broken canoe, packed with water, slammed nose first into a granite rock. I yelled. The canoe stopped, then lurched forward again. Ira was in a sticky hold and wasn’t going anywhere. I reached for him with my hand, missed, and then extended my paddle to his reaching fingers. We missed by inches. He soon flushed out.

We rolled the wrecked canoe upright. I could see thwarts broken, the unsecure flotation bags useless. We swam for gear that had been torn loose in the partial wrapping. We tried to paddle the full canoe to shore, but had no success. The current carried us swiftly down-stream. Swimming shoreward with the upstream painter line and working in a pendulum fashion, we maneuvered our broken boat and egos shoreward. Nearly a mile downstream we pulled out on the left bank, cold, wet and humbled.

Shaped From Driftwood

Friends gathered around. Feelings of awe and oh-oh hung thickly in the air. We loaded the canoe bottoms-up across Ferg’s raft. Like a huge green armadillo, each end drooped to the water. Ira sat forlornly on the raft with the broken canoe. We floated down through the beautiful canyon.

We camped that night across from the mouth of the Little Colorado River. On the float to camp Andy and I talked. We thought the canoe was fixable. Soon after arriving on shore the effort began. It involved everyone. We worked late into the night and the next afternoon.

Wood gunwales were shaped from driftwood and makeshift thwarts added. The torn sections were patched with hypalon fabric from the raft repair kits. Holes were patiently awled through the hull for lacing the new parts in place, each step done with painstaking care. Tom later wrote, “This crew is amazing. Six people working away, taking out seats and loosening the remaining gunnels. Andy carves a sturdy 4-foot length of stick into a new gunnel. People working together quickly and efficiently. Most everyone else is sitting around the canoe watching, commenting, and joking.”

The optimism, effort and cooperation bonded our crew of 16. The sun beat down hotly as we labored away. Finally at three the following afternoon we finished, proudly snapping the spray skirt onto the rebuilt canoe. Great joy welled up in us all as Ira and I paddled back onto the Colorado River.

The canoe glided effortlessly, not a flaw perceptible. Ira beamed. I felt whole again. The canoe cruised down the river, slicing through the flats and surging over waves. Day Five came to a close, thirteen more days remained on our trip. Below us, the big-name rapids pulsated.

Further Right Than Intended

Every day is a big day for canoeists on the Grand where unnamed riffles mean 2- to 5-foot waves. We were on an 18-day roller coaster ride, and everyday the canoe would rise and fall and rock and roll. All manner of braces and strokes kept us attached to the water. The river raced swiftly past, inches below our gunwales. The black schist of the inner gorge enveloped us. Canyon walls high above

We ran every rapid, and one experience of a lifetime followed another; Dubendorff, Crystal, Lava Falls... The lines we paddled were exciting, the scenes breathtaking.

Deubendorff Rapids was a high point, right on the edge. We entered a smooth tongue on river right. Our plan was to drive right into a relatively calm channel amid the cauldron of high, steep waves. The river shoved us further left than intended, so we spun into an upstream ferry, getting only two strokes in before broad-siding the first breaking wave. I did a cross-draw into the 6-foot monster, and pulling through, prepared for the next. Ira was moaning disaster in the stern, suffering out loud in advance. We pulled through the biggest waves and finished upright.

We ran Lava Falls, too, a 37-foot drop. The approach is a downhill, accelerating slide where butterflies bruise your stomach. Then you’re engulfed. Waves furiously crash back on themselves. Learned instinct takes over. A lightning fast cross draw ripped me out of my thigh straps into the left side of the canoe while Ira maintained a powerful low brace. We paddled through upright. Yahoo!!

Into a Synergistic Whole

Halfway through our trip we lost one of our experienced canoeists. I wrote in my journal: “I heard Fred yell for help and turned around to see the C-2 capsized. We paddled the canoe back to Fred while Steve stayed with the C-2. Fred grabbed onto our canoe gunnel and we paddled him to shore. As I helped him from the water his shoulder slipped back into joint. The intense pain receded and we gave him a muscle relaxer, a pain killer and an anti-inflammatory. We’ve had dozens of small and more sever injuries on this trip; blistered ankles, swelling ankles, sore and hurt shoulders, cuts and sore muscles. Everyone’s getting healthy otherwise. The food is good and we are getting plenty of exercise and rest.”

Running the Grand Canyon is a matter of perspective. Running the Grand takes a lot of effort. Daily challenges are great. Communication among participants is essential. The individual’s needs are met through group efforts. As problems are effectively resolved, the group develops into a synergistic whole - or not. When it does, life is beautiful.