Grand Canyon Rafting

High But Not Dry

Herald Journal

Guided luxury on a surging Green River.
By Lance Frazier

DESOLATION CANYON- It was on the third day of the trip, in an untamed stretch of lower Green River rapids, that Bubba was flipped from the raft.

These weren't the mammoth waves that make you gain (or lose) religion-they were somewhere in the middle of the whitewater scale- but the whipping action of the deepest hole was enough to fling young Bubba, glasses and all, out into the water. Not a catastrophe, really; people get tossed from rafts all the time. But Bubba was our guide, and the six of us left aboard felt a little lost without his directive calls of "all left" and "backpaddle" and the urgent "all forward-hard!"

We had put in at Sand Wash, 23 curious guests and six Western River Expeditions guides. The plan was to spend four relaxing days floating down the river, soaking up Southern Utah's sunny weather, swimming and camping on the beaches.

That is where the guides, in their alternate role as chefs, became heroes on the very first day by roping the moving rafts together and serving up chicken salad sandwiches in pita bread, along with cookies, fruit and chips, all as the convoy floated downriver. There were waterfights that day, since none of us were yet comfortable attacking strangers with a bucket, but we did enjoy another tradition that evening at our Jack Creek camp; the customary river trip first night dinner, mouth-watering steaks the size of dinner plates.

By the second day we were getting to know each other, people from Anchorage to Texas to Florida to Arizona, thrown together on two paddleboats and four guide-powered rafts, learning to watch out for eddy lines and the "wellers," "boilers" and "domers" that can stall or spin a boat. The growing rumble of each approaching rapid triggered an adrenaline rush, as those in the front prepared to "punch the tubes" as the raft hit the waves, and all aboard prepared to get doused.

Dustin and Darrin Chapman, vacationing from the Navy and SCUBA instructing, respectively, camp up from Florida to enjoy a trip with their parents, who came down from Alaska. The Brothers Chapman soon became the scourge of the seas, the water pirates, launching attacks from all directions at any target.

Between waterfights and rapids we float lazily with no direction but that of the current, spinning casual pirouettes which offered a 360-degree view of the surrounding red cliffs with their Juniper trees, sagebrush and rabbitbrush, and the riverbanks lined with lofty, shade giving cottonwoods and the ubiquitous tamarisk. Boulders the size of Chevy's balanced atop delicate pinnacles, and formations such as Broken Finger and Nefertiti served as landmarks.

Major John Wesley Powell, the first to explore the Green and Colorado rivers made note of the "vast amphitheaters" and myriad of flora. In 1869 Powell abandoned a boat near Gold Hole. The wooden dory with it's boulder bashing iron prow still rests under a giant cottonwood there.

The rich and colorful history of this region was largely contributed by outlaws such as Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch, who traded horses with local rancher, Jim McPherson and shed posses in the labyrinth of rugged canyons.

In one canyon the rusty remains of a whiskey still by a fellow named BillCrouch in his carefully chosen and fortified cave, a room with a clear view of the approaching trail. Bill was known for his peach whiskey, which he traded to the outlaws. The bootlegger eventually hooked up with a woman called Crazy Kate, and soon faded from the scene, another in a series of Kate's husbands who disappeared mysteriously. One of the Bill's ragged coats hangs on a nail, next to a gnarled leather boot and several thick brown bottles.

Not much has changes on the river since the 1800's. Travelers are still lulled to sleep by chorusing crickets and the gentle swoosh of waves against the riverbank, and the same whiptail lizards and swallows and bighorn sheep inhabit the area.

Campers still enjoy a little guitar music-as dusk and the Dutch oven cobbler settled on the second night, Sarah, the head guide and a Utah State University student, and Diana, a natural born performer from the Brigham Young University, serenaded the group with songs from James Taylor and the Eagles.

Each morning we had a choice of rising early to take in the sunrise as it found its way into the narrow canyon or lounging on our cots until the guides called "coffee" and a little later, "breakfast!"

Our surroundings aged tremendously as we float out of Desolation's 40 million old Green River formation to the 60 million year old Mesa Verde group of the aptly named Gray Canyon.

The last night we camped on a sandy beach with space for a volleyball court, to the delight of the younger crowd. There were also plenty of secluded spots to set up a cot under a tree and read a book. Dinner was a luxurious affair, starting with shrimp cocktails and proceeding through barbecued chicken to strawberry flambe

We'd mastered the packing system by the final morning, and broke camp quickly before rowing to near
Gunnison Butte, a few miles from the town of Green River, Utah, and partaking of our last sandwich smorgasbord lunch.

As we loaded on the bus exchanging goodbyes and addresses and took our last look at the rafts, the Texan, Tom Juneau, summed it up for all of us: "I feel like a kid on his way home from summer camp."

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