Grand Canyon Rafting
Knoxville News

The

A wild rush, a scenic ride Along 'God's greatest painting'
By Linda Lange: News-Sentinel Travel Writer

WESTWATER CANYON, Utah - A loud, sullen roaring lets us know wild water is ahead. The Colorado River pitches our rubber raft from wave to wave as it thunders through Westwater Canyon

Each turn brings new challenges to oarsman Rick Tolman, who keeps his eyes on the white froth and devious eddies. He tells us to hold on tightly.

We begin "rifling through" the rapids-first Little Dolores, then Staircase. We bend against the rubber and into the waves, catching cold water splashes from each tier. Then we smack Little Hummer and Big Hummer.

The wild ride picks up speed. The unpredictable current rushes past boulders and hits canyon walls, sending water spouts into the air.

At Funnel Falls, the channel narrows, and a huge wave breaks in from the side. The blast drenches us and fills the bottom of the boat nearly knee deep in water. "Bail! You gotta bail!" Tolman shouts, but the plastic bucket had disappeared during the turbulence.

Another wave nails us. As the rubber boat lurches against a rock wall, the raft's midsection releases the elusive bucket. With no time to lose, we bail furiously. A second set of rapids looms ahead, and our boat sits low in the water. Tolman backstrokes to give us time, but all too soon we descend into Surprise Rapid and Skull Rapid.

He muscles the oars, heaving his back and shoulders, gritting his teeth. A maelstrom sucks the raft's front end. We hang on as Tolman maneuvers the raft past the aptly named Rock of Shock and the eddy known as Room of Doom. He warns, "Once you are inside, it's hard to get out."

The raft spins from side to side through the deep, dark gorge. We hear spatters and pops. In quick succession we shoot through Crossbones Rapid and down the Bowling Alley and hit the big time at Sock-It-To-Me.

Before we regain our senses, we rampage into Last Chance, a near-panic level cascade, followed by Dimer, our final coldwater christening for the day.

It takes a mile of calmer water before we seize enough composure to snap off life jackets and begin drying out. The river, mottled with foam patches, snakes through a magnificent desertscape that opens up before us.

It was quite an introduction to our 55-mile journey that had begun at Westwater ranger station, an hour's drive west of Grand Junction, Colorado. The three-day adventure would end at Salt Wash Canyon, near Moab, Utah. Earlier in the day, the four crew members had stocked four 18-foot Maravia inflatable boats with food and supplies, enough for the 17 vacationers on board. They had helped us stash our clothes in waterproof bags and strap all gear to the neoprene rafts.

Trip leader Stephanie Perry and crew members Rick Tolman, Michael Eyre and Staci Childs had fitted everyone with lifejackets and explained rescue techniques. They had familiarized us with Western water-rafting lingo-"high siding," "punching waves" and, most important, "rifling through," a counterpart to shooting the rapids.

They had promised a trip with Class IV rapids at the beginning and end. In between, smooth water would lure us into a canyonland love affair. After a few more instructions, we had started down the "color red" river.

This river of rufous sediment meanders through the Southwestern desert and through a geological history of 300 million years. Stratified sedimentary rock was shifted by mighty forces and carved by relentless wind and water into arches, spires and escarpments. Canyon walls, all highly colored and often polished, are spectacular against the bright blue skies.

The human history of the Western canyons is serendipitous. Anasazi Indians left traces in the sun-baked land, as did the gold-crazed Spaniards of the 16th century, who marched northward from their Mexican settlements, only to find a labyrinth of dry arroyos. Though scores of westering woodsmen wandered beyond Colorado's forested peaks, no one rivaled Major John Wesley Powell in grasping the magnitude of the Colorado River Valley.

The legendary Civil War veteran, who lost an arm at the Battle of Shiloh, pursued the spirit of the West in small wooden crafts. His river men strapped the intrepid Powell to a chair so he could warn of dangers ahead. From his perch, he bellowed commands. His instructions were often for naught. Tortuous rapids overtook the men again and again. Powell's bravery and brilliance won him a place in history, and in these parts, his name is still spoken with reverence.

Our group hears about Powell as we ease through the water. Though we can't imagine the hardships of the 1869 expedition, we certainly understand why the pioneers were filled with wonder. Jack Sumner, a member of Powell's group, wrote in his diary, "We plunge along singing, yelling like drunken soldiers. It is like sparking a black-eyed girl-just dangerous enough to be exciting."

We discover, just as they did, the river gets a hold of you and doesn't let go.

Your senses take in the delicious fragrance of sage and pinion juniper, the gritty texture of sandstone, the whistling wind of the desert, the ever-changing hues brushed across canyon cliffs. Granite, shale, schist and sandstone alternate colors, tan and gray, crimson and brown, black and indigo, pink and purple with saffron tints.

We peer at red rock titans silhouetted against sapphire skies and give them silly names. One resembles a cow from Gary Larson's cartoons; another looks like a pickup truck towing a trailer. We identify an Indian chief profile and nuns kneeling before a priest.

Golden eagles soar above rolling sagebrush hills, and a peregrine falcon alights with wildly wiggling snake in its talons. A pair of bald eagles scrutinize our boats, and cliff swallows slip into oval nests as we glide past their domains. We glimpse mule deer and pronghorn antelope.

"A lot of people don't get to see such a pristine environment," says Tolman, explaining that to him the scenic beauty is the essence of the trip. "Really, the rapids are secondary," he says, drying his sunglasses with a turquoise bandanna. We sit in his boat, wide-eyed and lost in thought, passing sandstone amphitheaters, august cathedrals and crenellated walls grand beyond description. "Every once in a while you will hear a rock slide into the river. It sounds like a clap of thunder," says Tolman.

"This is God's greatest painting. There's no way this was thrown together by a Big Bang. It didn't just get jumbled together by chance," Tolman says. He recalls how a friend revised his thinking once he experienced the stunning canyonlands. "It shakes your agnosticism a bit," the man told him.

On the third morning of the river trip, the water waltzes through the canyon and begins to whirl in a merry mood. The last dance at White's Rapid is the one most remembered.

Reading the water from beneath his tattered straw hat, boatman Michael Eyre lets us know we are plunging into something more than riffles. To stir our sense of anticipation, he jokes, "The quickest drying material is human skin."

The orange raft accelerates to the tune of the ripping, roaring river. Swirls now roil red and opaque. Eyre plies the oars and angles sharply. We bypass the turbid redness but find ourselves rushing toward a titanic rock. Around us water whooshes into the wind.

Eyre has little time to pivot the craft to the center. The torrent is swift. From the side, a tremendous surge of muddy water splatters us. He redirects our path just before a second set of rapids sends us racing through a boulder-strewn channel. We have only a moment to catch our breath before the current blasts us again.

An ominous look crosses Eyre's face, and he turns to the rafts behind ours. A passenger has spilled into the 50-degree water. The current is driving him down the rapids. Shouts echo across the canyon. Eyre quickly tosses a line, and the shivering swimmer is drawn and hoisted onto our raft.

After another soaking, the river leaves the roughness. Calm water and blazing sunshine welcome us. By and by, a sharp turn in the river brings a landing site. We pull our rafts onto the sand, change into dry clothes and haul our gear to shuttle vans for the ride back to Grand Junction. Before we leave, we eat sandwiches and talk about the last, rambunctious rapids. Our canyonland escapade has come to an end.

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