Grand Canyon White Water Rafting Adventure(s)-- Don't Go Big. Go Pro.

 

 

In 2011, Scott and I bought two seats on a private non-motorized trip down the Colorado River. Four good friends joined us. Three rafts were oared by Sven, Dimitri, and Carlos. Dimitri applied for and won the lottery, a once yearly chance to raft the Colorado. Dimitri and Carlos had previously run river trips in Washington State, I think, but nothing that came close to Colorado River class ten rapids. Sven was a newbie.  By day two, my friend Steve and I each had a credit card and our IDs in the top zipper pocket of our ExOfficio rafting shirts, just in case we had a chance to escape the trip. This was because on day 2, Dimitri, with Steve and Mark in his boat, turned on the Go Pro attached to his head and announced he was going to "GO BIG!" Of course, the raft flipped. Steve managed to hang on to the upside-down raft through the crazy rapids, but Mark went for a long, submerged swim. I thought he was a goner. Hypothermia is a big deal on the Colorado River. The air is hot, but the water is very cold. It's comes out of the turbines of Glen Canyon Dam at around 46 degrees Fahrenheit.

Over the next days, the trip deteriorated. Dimitri, supposedly in addiction recovery, began drinking. Carlos, who seemed like a genuinely good person, was one of Dimitri's program sponsors, I think. He tried his best to keep Dimitri on task. But Dimitri was preoccupied to say the least. Sven should not have been there at all. His lack of confidence were palpable. I began to feel like my cat who seems to be on high alert, in Code Red mode all the time. Fight or flight, mostly flight was on my mind from day two. Also like my cat, I have a fear of drowning. Fear of drowning, and having sharp things poked in my eyes, are my only two fears in life and it seemed a high probability that these two things could happen at once on Dimitri's trip. Mark's friend Natalie was nothing like my cat. She seemed to be having a ball, especially on the rapids. But Natalie is the kind of person who takes life as it comes and appreciates time off from work with friends more than anyone else I know. While I sat at the front of Carlos' raft, day after day, helmet on, sitting on my knees, getting as low as I could, my tightly-shut eyes barely clearing the front of the raft, feet jammed into the bottom of a pontoon behind me, gripping on to a rope for dear life, Natalie rode the rapids with one arm in the air, like Annie Oakley on a reared up horse. Yeehaw! 

Fortunate for the group, one of the participants was an experienced Colorado River white water rafter and kayaker, Gabe. Gabe saved the trip. He possibly saved lives. I can't remember how many times he had gone down the Colorado before, but it was a lot. He sort of took control of the trip the first week, then completely took over the second week. (I'll get to the reason for that soon.) Gabe knew how to ride every rapid. He knew the best pullout spots for lunch or where to preview a rapid from above. He instructed Scott, Mark, and Steve on how to steer through the rapids, safely and without "going big." 

Fortunate for me, my friend Ron and I had, two weeks earlier, agreed to swap seats half-way through the trip. I only wanted to do the first week, and Ron could only do the second. So at Phantom Ranch, the half-way point, I hiked out of the Grand Canyon, while Ron hiked in. We hadn't had cell reception since we launched, so Ron didn't know what he was getting into. Carlos, and one of Dimitri's daughters unexpectedly hiked out at Phantom Ranch too. But not with me. As soon as we landed at 3pm, they took off, abandoning Dimitri to his fate. Due to risk of heat exhaustion, the rangers stationed at Phantom Ranch don't allow people with permits (of which I had one) to start hiking out of the Grand Canyon until dusk. It's a 4800 foot climb. It's hot, even at night. It took me nine hours to reach the South Rim. It was really hard. I don't think the rangers knew that Carlos and Dimitri's daughter hiked out during the day. I assume they made it. Since I was not there the second week, I got the rest of the story from my husband, Scott.

Gabe took over running the trip. It's not like he wanted to. He had won a spot on a random group trip, his lucky day. But he thought he would do his own thing, which was to paddle his kayak down the river with little interaction from strangers and without drama. Instead he stepped up on day 8 or 9 to run the trip after Dimitri failed to securely tie the rafts at the outlet of Havasu Creek. Steve later said it was because Dimitri had "seen something shiny"; a piton in the rocks, and got distracted. As Scott and the others hiked up Havasu Creek, another group of rafters noticed that three rafts, with not a soul on board, were floating down the river, and began shouting, "Hey! Your rafts are floating down the river!" 

Without life jackets or water, the group had to hike for a couple of miles downriver, climbing up and down the cliff walls, before coming to a spot where a Good Samaritan from another raft trip had captured the rafts and secured them to shore. (Having just completed this section of the Colorado last week, I honestly don't know how they did it. The walls are sheer and and covered in scree in places.) Anyway, Havasu Creek was when Gabe took over for good. The story goes that Dimitri kept insisting he was the trip leader because the permit was in his name, but after Havasu and the mutiny, he submitted. Gabe was angry and embarrassed that he should be on a trip with a leader as incompetent as Dimitri, and that Gabe's name and reputation might be associated with the time "some idiot lost his rafts" and become part of Colorado River lore infuriated him. 

Gabe took over the trip as leader, Natalie took over management of the meals, and Scott and Mark and Steve learned a new life skill; how to oar rafts safely through Colorado River rapids.

I thought I had scratched white water rafting off my bucket list. After all, I did the Colorado, the biggest rapids you can raft, the best of the best- if you don't count the Zambezi River between Zimbabwe and Zambia, which I also did, in 1995. But Steve and his wife Cheryl had done a trip down the Colorado with a company called Grand Canyon Expeditions a few years ago. Not a private trip, but a commercial motorized trip with experienced guides. They were considering doing it again and asked other friends to join them, including Scott and I. Two things made me want to say no. One, I was terrified on Dimitri's trip, so why would I want to do that again? Second, I am not great with high temperatures so I thought August, especially in 2023, a summer of record breaking heat, was a very bad time to go. But because it was the only trip that year with an historian, and because eleven of us old college buddies would be going, and because Grand Canyon Expeditions does all the cooking, I decided to go. Mostly because of all my buddies going.

 I had the time of my life. It was like night and day compared to the 2011 trip. In 2011, I was so focused on the walls of waves coming at me, I hardly noticed the canyon walls looming over us. In 2023, I sat towards the back of the boat in the VIP lounge, better known as the Chicken Coop, bouncing over the rapids like a person having fun, not terrified. I spent my time gazing at the beautiful layers of rock that make up the Grand Canyon. I must have said, "This is so pretty" a hundred times. I was relaxed and happy. I felt totally safe, in good hands. I want to do it again.

There were two motorized rafts, captained expertly by Zack and Glade. Sedona and Robert, referred to by the company as Swampers, did everything from casting off, securing the boats, to loading and unloading the boats, to cooking meals, to passing around drinks and snacks while we were underway, and more.

They were the first to rise and last to bed and they were stellar. Richard, also known as "Q", was our Historian and boy was he great. Each day we'd have a talk about the men and women explorers who have rafted the Colorado since Powell's inaugural trip in 1869, or we'd get a history of Hoover Dam, or when we passed the spot where an explorer died in a rapid, or from a heart attack while doing a rapid (my cat and I can totally see how that could happen) he'd give us the details, down to where the body was buried or how it was extracted. If you are thinking of booking a Colorado River trip, I'd recommend doing the trip with Q and his crew.

Aside from we eleven college buddies, there was a family of seven including 9-year-old twins, a group of four friends from NY, a couple also from NY, and an aunt with her college-age niece and nephew. It was a terrific group. We had a bar. We all liked to drink.

We peed in the river together (gents downstream, ladies upstream of the rafts) and we pooed privately in a metal can called a groover. Never mind. Suffice to say, the view was always inspiring. At one camp, Aunt Angie even saw a ring tailed cat while grooving!

The days, like the rapids, ran together. What stands out for me were two short walks to waterfalls, one big, and one small, and a short hike up the Havasu side canyon, this time with rafts professionally secured. The best part of these hikes was getting to stand under clear water. It was glorious. Because of the heat, I chose not to do the longer hikes. I'd get around 20 feet off the river and begin to feel right poorly. Instead, I'd sit in the river in the shade of the raft until the group returned.We rarely were hot while rafting because the waves from the rapids would wash over us and cool us down at once; especially on Hermit Rapid where rafts were briefly submerged and some folks at the front had to grab on to life vests of two others when they were air-born. I watched this with one eye shut from the Chicken Coop.

We all hung on more tightly through the infamous Lava Falls, a class 10 rapid renown for it's vigor a few days later and it wasn't as scary as the hype. Though right after Glade sang out "Hang on tight for Lava Falls!" I told Scott I loved him, just in case.

The highlight of the trip was all of Day 5. That was the day we had a short walk to a sparkling clear pool and waterfall, the small one, one you could climb up behind and slide down into the pool, which we did. Later that afternoon, we did a short hike to a magnificently colored slot canyon. Glade sat on a large boulder in the canyon playing his guitar and singing songs he wrote accompanied by nature's acoustics. It was beautiful and moving. It was also the only time on the trip all twenty-eight of us were quiet. Glade not only sings, writes his own lyrics, captains rafts and sea dories expertly on the Colorado, builds boats in the off season, but he can ALSO COOK.

Zack was the trip leader. He is also known as Mr. Kitty. He promises the story about how he got the name will get better, so I won't go into it here. It's like how my nieces and nephew call me Will. Never mind. Mr. Kitty has been rafting for over twenty years and is a seasoned pro. And he can COOK.

The food. Oh my word. At the beginning of the trip Zack gave a safety briefing, including not only the necessity to stay hydrated, but also the need to eat a lot, even if we didn't feel like it. As a group, we did not disappoint. Breakfasts consisted of coffee, pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit and more. Lunches were sandwiches or wraps or salad on a beach along the way. Dinners included mahi mahi, chicken, Chinese buffet, pork, pasta (with the best sauce I have ever tasted), and the final night we had the most tender steaks with baked potatoes with all the toppings. Dessert every night. Often cake or brownies cooked in a dutch oven. Snacks and drinks were always available while underway. The food was so good.

 

We slept on cots under the stars. Perfect. Scott brought along battery operated fans that he hung from a tripod of branches he'd find on the beach, so I wouldn't die of heat stroke. In the middle of the night he'd trudge down to the river to re-wet our sarongs, which lay over us. The air from the fan hit the sarong and acted like an air conditioner. Bliss. We ate on the each, slept on cots, and bounced in the rafts wonderfully. 

When I told Scott I wanted to do it again next year, he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Tris

Grand Canyon Colorado River Raft Trip 

August 3-10, 2023

Green Eyes Crosses Her Wake on September 17,2022!

 

Gift for the Holidays--Africa Inspiration

 

Are you or someone you know planning a trip to Africa? My series of three books set in Africa could be just the inspiration you need. 

 

Safari Jema, A Journey of Love and Adventure from Casablanca to Cape Town

My Life with Ndoto, Exploring Africa in a Forty Year Old Land Rover

The Dancing Bridge of Kamunjoma

 

All are available at Amazon in print and kindle version, or order from your favorite bookstore.  

Safari Jema is also available on Audible.

And the 2022 Indie Book Award Finalist in Travel Goes to...The Dancing Bridge of Kamunjoma!

 

What started out as a project report for the non-profit we worked with in Zambia, ended up as a short story published on Amazon. Now I’m honored to receive the 2022 Indie Book Award for The Dancing Bridge of Kamunjoma. Finalist in Travel.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience to live with and work alongside the Nsenga men, women and children in the small village of Kamunjoma helping to build a bridge that dances. But I think it might be the last time I try to live without running water or electricity.

Adventures of Green Eyes, The Last Anchorage in Florida, Three Times is a Charm.

 

I was going to write about a milestone recently achieved by the three-being crew of Green Eyes; fifty-five hundred miles on The Great Loop so far. I guess the universe thought I was bragging or big-dealing something, which considering all that is happening in the world while we while away on a little tug boat, isn't a big deal at all. Still, I was going to memorialize the mileage with a pat-on-the-back post. Then we had our last anchorage in Florida, which was a big deal in the Chinese saying sense, May you live in interesting times.

Anchoring in a secluded cove within dingy distance of a white-sand beach, or up a fresh water creek, one so narrow the leaves at the tops of the trees on opposite banks touch in the center to create a lush, living ceiling, or anywhere on a clear, windless night when the moon is full and the stars light up the sky; these are the anchorages we seek. And when we anchor in such places, it always reminds us why our favorite healing thing/relaxing thing/rejuvenating thing is being in nature.

But even in 5500 miles, the majority of anchorages were more practical than pretty. The best anchorages (adequate depth, good anchor holding, plenty of room to swing in wind or current without hitting the shore or other craft) are often crowded with other boats, or they're located near a noisy bridge, or only exist as an icon on navigation charts because a previous boater running out of daylight or needing emergency shelter from a storm saw a marginally okay place to drop the hook. And believe me, those icons are much appreciated as reliable safe havens in a pinch. But they aren't worth writing home about for their beauty. So, even though anchoring makes us feel young and adventurous, most nights find us docked at a marina. The showers and laundry are convenient and there is usually a cafe or pub nearby, which is much appreciated by the ship's cook, me. 

We wanted to be at the final destination of this leg of the Loop, Pensacola, Florida, and we were focused on getting there because bad weather was coming. And well, hurricane season begins June 1st so we wanted to be out of Florida as soon as possible. 

Up to now we'd been lucky with our multi-day crossings of the Gulf of Mexico. Other boaters had warned us of how rough the Gulf could get in high winds, but our crossing days were mostly smooth as silk. Long, eight to ten hour days, but smooth, and porpoise-full.

 Our first intended marina stop after crossing the Gulf was at Carabelle, Florida, which is up a river and in the more protected inland waterway off the Gulf of Mexico. But what a shit show that was. The transient dock at the marina in Carabelle was under repair so, in high winds and a very strong tidal current, a lady on the dock tried to guide Scott to a tight spot, in between six pilings, three on each side, spaced around twelve feet apart. The idea is with this type of dockage is that you loop a line over the top of a piling, then secure the line to your boat. As you move forward in the “slip” the first mate runs around the boat looping lines and securing to the boat. Once the boat is tied to four or six pilings, it sits secure, but it is impossible to get off the boat. You are basically stuck until you cast off in the morning. The job of attempting to lasso the pilings fell to me.  Ha! As Scott tried to navigate between the rows of pilings, the lady on the dock, who I'm pretty sure runs the country store adjacent to the marina, offered unhelpful advice, over and over and over, "You're gonna have to throw a stern line over that piling on your port side." 

"You mean this piling that is twelve feet above me? The one I cannot possibly reach in a 26' Nordic Tug?"

"Yes ma'am. You're gonna have to get that stern line over that piling." Then, as the current and wind pushed the boat sideways, and our dingy that hangs from a davit at the stern of the boat bounced off one piling, then another, she shook her head and said, "Nope. Uh-uh." (pause) "You gotta first get that stern line over that rear piling. Then you gotta get that starboard line over the piling on the other side." 

"Tris," Scott said when we were completely broadside and drifting into a massive trawler, "this isn't going to work. Come take the helm. Maybe I can push the boat off the pilings while you steer us either forward into the slip or outta here completely."

"Aye, aye, Cap." We quickly changed positions. The country store lady turned her attention to Scott. "You're gonna have to get that stern line over that rear piling first. And with two tide changes in eight hours, you're gonna have to reset the lines at least once before morning."  

"Aye aye aye..." I muttered.  

"You're gonna have to..." she started again. Scott interrupted the dock lady. "Uh, this isn't going to work for our boat. Is there another marina nearby?'

Shrug.

The wind was still holding us sideways to the pilings, not anywhere near being straight in. Using the thruster, I tried to push the bow around, but the wind and current were too strong and the boat held fast to the pilings. Standing up on the gunnel, and using all his might, Scott pushed the boat off the nearest piling, trying to keep subsequent pilings from getting stuck between the boat and the dingy. The current was unbelievably strong. With Scott's calm and excellent direction, "Okay, now forward. Okay, now port thruster. A little starboard. Okay now reverse HARD..." I managed to back us out by going at an angle between rows of pilings. 

"Let's just go back and anchor near that nice beach we saw," I said once we were back in the  channel. An hour earlier, we had passed a beautiful anchorage, which at the time we passed looked protected and peaceful. I suggested we drop the hook there and then, but Scott checked the weather and was worried about strong winds in the forecast, so we continued on to Carabelle.

We headed back the way we came. After thirty minutes, with the winds gaining in strength, Scott suggested a closer anchorage and we headed to that one. But when we arrived, the most secure spots were taken by other boats and, after testing a few insufficient depths nearby, we turned east and went all the way back to the pretty anchorage we had passed earlier. It took us an hour to get there. 

Boy, the wind had really come up. With Scott out at the bow wrangling the anchor, I turned Green Eyes into the wind and Scott dropped the anchor. We dragged a bit at first, then the anchor set firm. 

The anchorage was very pretty. We both had that "ahhhh" feeling. Day is done, we're safe and sound, let's have a beer. 

Scott pulled two beers out of the ice chest and I made a quick batch of veggie nachos with black beans, tomatoes, cheese, salsa, and sour creme. I popped it in microwave to melt the cheese and brought the plate out to the back porch where Scott was already enjoying a beer. Yum, the nachos were good. But the wind and current caused the boat to roll violently from side to side. We had to set the plate on the deck and use the ice chest to block the wind. A third of the nachos went overboard. Beers were finished quickly before they spilled too much. 

We noticed that the current, and the boat, were perpendicular to the wind. Normally, the bow of a boat points directly into the wind at anchor. But not that day, not at Dog Island West anchorage. "It's the strangest thing," Scott said, leaning out to look at the bow of the boat and the direction of the anchor line. "We can't roll like this all night." He checked our Windy app again. "Plus, the wind is forecast to increase through the night." He paused and shifted from sundowner mode to captain mode. "I don't feel good about this. Let's move the boat around that spit for a little more protection." 

I started the engine and took the helm. Scott pulled up the anchor and thirty minutes later we set the anchor just fifty feet off a white sand beach at Dog Island East. The tide was going out again and just as the sun was setting, an overturned, wrecked boat was exposed near the shore. The onshore wind howled and the boat rolled. "But it's our last anchorage in Florida, and it is pretty," I said, taking in the beach, the wreck, the nacho crumbs, the spilled beer, and the setting sun. 

There were notes about the anchorage from previous boaters in our navigation app that mentioned dragging potential in strong winds so we set the anchor alarm and went to bed. Our bed is super comfy, but it is one of those climb-over beds and Scott is on the inside, which is not a good place to be if you need to move quickly because the anchor is dragging and the boat is heading towards shore. Scott stretched out on the seven foot couch in the salon, Pika took up position midships on the floor of the helm in the middle where the wind and wave action would be least felt (she's such a smart ship's kitty), and I took the bed (because I'm smart too.) The crew of Green Eyes was ready to spring into action should the anchor drag in the night. We rocked and we rolled until the wind died down around midnight. We woke to a spectacular sunrise. The anchor came up clean. Our Garmin tracked the boat movement through the night and told an accurate story (see photo above. All those squiggles are movement.) Oh, and we hit the 5500 mile mark on our Great Loop, so there's that too.

Scott and Tris and Pika too.

June 3, 2022, Pensacola, Florida

The Adventures of Green Eyes-- No Wonder We Bought a Nordic Tug

 

We bought a Nordic Tug for this Great Loop adventure because it is sturdy and reliable, not for it's genealogy. But the other day I got to thinking about how much the boat and Scott, who is also of Scandinavian descent, share the same characteristics; quiet, resilient, happy to spend hours or days at the dock or at anchor, more interested in functionality than ostentation, and more. 

Then the other day, Norm, a boat restorer in Titusville, Florida saw our ship's cat Pika (Pee-ka) for the first time and exclaimed, "She's so pretty! And big. Is she a Maine Coon?"  

"No," I answered. "She does have the tufts of fur between her toes characteristic of Maine Coons, but she's more fluffy than big. So while she's Maine Coon-ish, she's something else." 

 

But what is she? Since fostering and adopting Pika more than ten years ago, I've wondered about Pika's lineage. With time to kill on Green Eyes due to weather delays, I resolved to discover Pika's tribe. I began with a Google image search for "furry gray cat with tufted paws and ears and white bib with white blaze on nose" and up popped a photo of Pika! Well, not my Pika, but a definite match. I dug deeper into ear size (rounder than Maine Coon), face shape (triangular), profile (slight upturn of the nose), vocalization (Pika talks softly, and a lot), loyalty (so very loyal, she thinks she's a dog), and low and behold, it turns out Pika is of the breed Norwegian Forest Cat. Of course she is. It all makes sense now.  The Captain, the craft, the cat. They are all Scandinavian. 

 

Scott and the cat share many Scandinavian mannerisms. One is the blank stare. It is a stereotype that Scandinavians can be often caught staring at something or someone. But they may not even see what their eyes are fixated on. They are thinking about something else entirely. This make me nervous when we are underway.

Scott does 99% of the time at the helm. And he certainly appears to be watching the channel markers or oncoming traffic. But sometimes, he's really just staring into a void while thinking about skiing, or flying, or tracking wild animals in Africa, or any number of other interests. 

 

                                   Pika does the exact same thing. 

 

She has a routine each night where she sits on my lap for tummy rubs; contented, relaxed, and purring. Then at some random moment she suddenly rolls over and climbs off my lap as if she just remembered she is urgently needed elsewhere. She walks to the end of the couch, and either stands on her hind legs or sits on her haunches, and stares deeply into the corner for at least five minutes. She does this every night. Is she thinking about Fancy Feast? Playtime? Maybe she's thinking about tracking wild animals with Scott. 

 

Pika and Scott share other Scandinavian traits. Take dancing. As rare an activity in my Scott as it is in cats.

I once asked our Danish friend Lars if he had ever danced. "Oh yes," he said. "Every year I walk around the Christmas tree with my family." 

"Lars, that's not dancing."

"For a Dane it is," he asserted. 

Here is a video of Scandinavian dancing where the instructor actually says at one point, "Walking is not just walking. Walking is dancing."

 

Click to watch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHih1aG44yM

 

Or click on this more exciting version:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqc1_08iq34

 

Scott may be a Scandinavian anomaly. At parties, he routinely seeks me out for all the slow dances, and he also does a fun cross between the jitterbug and the swing, only it's like a slow dance.

One of the fun things I like to do on the boat to pass the time during long crossings is Dance Off. I love to dance. If there is music playing, I can't stop myself. Scott has a terrific music mix on his phone, mostly the hits of the 70's. Most of it makes one get up off their chair and DANCE. Unless you're Scandinavian. 

Picture Scott at the helm, Pika across from me in her bed. I press play on Scott's Amazon Tunes. It's James Brown, Get Up Offa That Thing. Yow! "Dance off!" I exclaim while turning up the volume. I'm off my seat, shakin' my groove thing in the wheelhouse next to Scott. After a time, I strike a dance off pose, you know, like how Chris Pratt did in Guardians of the Galaxy. 

 

click on the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaaJyAjvajo 

 

I point at Scott, "Take it down!" He stares ahead. I take it back but I'm still hopeful.  I point at Pika, "Hit it Peeks!" She yawns and stretches, then closes her eyes again. "Okay," I say, "then I'll go" and I'm the dancing queen, alone again, naturally. Suddenly I stare into the corner and think about Chris Pratt. A little drool falls onto my air mic. Then Thelma Houston sings Don't Leave Me This Way. Yow! I take up the Dance Off baton again. I sing directly to Pika and Scott. Then Barry White sings, You Are The First, The Last, My  Everything. I dedicate this Dance Off to the Crew of Green Eyes. I am singing and dancing to them. I give it my all. They stare. Scott reaches over to his iPhone. He selects Donna Summer's Last Dance.

Scott and Pika share other characteristics such as being cuddly, fun to be around, adventurous, and reliable. They make wonderful companions. And damn, they're soft on the eyes. 

I wouldn't trade my three Scandinavians for anything in the world.