My wife and I are planning on doing Phantom to Whitmore in a dory in September. As we prepare physically I’m hoping you can help us mentally. My wife is somewhat concerned with rapids. We have been whitewater rafting before, and she loves to go, but the nerves build and build in the week or two before the big day. As this trip has months of time for the stress to rise, is there any reassurance you can give her troubled heart about the rapids encountered on this section? How can we best prepare for the worries that come from being miles from civilization in the bottom of the Grand Canyon and in a drift boat going over some of the best rapids in the whole canyon. Please keep in mind we both can’t wait to get there but would rather not have to take anti-anxiety meds to do it.  -Russ

Dear Russ:

I find the beach at Phantom to be a great place for scanning faces. We hand out sandwiches and apples and snickers bars, as well as some much-needed Gatorade, teach you how to pack all your gear for the next ten days into a rubber container the size of a shopping bag, pass out the Ibuprofen, and generally let the enormity of the place soak in while you rest your weary knees.

Then we advise you that you’ve just hiked into one of the biggest stretches of whitewater on the river. The black schist cliffs rise a thousand vertical feet straight out of the water, and the rapid’s roar is right there, sort of in your face.

And as you slowly become aware of those tiny little wooden boats rocking gently in the eddy, and begin to notice the scruffy river guides in our floppy hats, flip-flops and gaudy rescue knives, I watch.

I tend to look for the eyes and the smile. The eyes are a little too big to be just appreciating the amazing scenery encompassing Phantom’s “Boat Beach,” looking instead like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. The smile is curled up at the edges and tight, definitely NOT amused. Those are the ones I veer towards with a kind pat on the shoulder or a hug, and a firm “YOU are coming with ME in MY boat. No arguments!”

Now, I understand that the above isn’t very helpful to your needs, so maybe you won’t want to share that part with your spouse. But I do think it important to illustrate to your lovely wife that she’s not alone, which should help a little. Nothing to be ashamed of, and something we guides cope with regularly. It’s the changeover from one world to the next that gets us–be it getting married, a climber’s first step onto the verticality, or getting dropped off for your first day in childcare (which, come to think of it, isn’t all that different from this). It’s like we always used to say: “The first step’s a Looloo” (whatever that meant). Never easy, always queasy.

But, as always, just barely in the tailwaves of the very first rapid five minutes downstream, everything comes together. Awareness replaces shock. The smile softens. The body and soul lose the feeling of rigor mortis and become supple, ready. This boat’s pretty stable, after all. This is kinda fun. The waves are big, yes, but it’s more exciting than scary. The guide (who might look like the person you’d cross the street to avoid in New York) is calm, strong, a real craftsman, very intelligent, quite handsome (or pretty), witty, and is probably more experienced than most of the other elite professionals who guide rafts down the Colorado put together.
Sort of a WHOOOHOOOOO! moment.

And from that moment on, my vast experience tells me that the very person who was most sh..t scared at first evolves into the one riding the bow, punching the waves, jumping into the waterfalls, sharing stupid jokes and generally acting like a twelve-year-old at camp, which is sort of what this is all about, isn’t it?

So, whilst there is nothing you or I are going to be able to do to quell the pre-trip anxiety attacks, which are perfectly normal and certainly will result in the equivalent of getting between two fighting dogs if you try to interfere, I’d say be loving, gentle, and understanding. Bring her favorite cup of coffee (tea, Jagermeister), encourage her to conquer her fears, and keep telling her that the River God guarantees that she will, when all is said and done, consider this trip as the most fun, most wondrous, most glorious, most perfect adventure of her life. She’ll have made some great new friends, and found that she was capable of feats–of superhuman hiking, camping, and going to the riverside Pooperia–that she’d never dreamed of. She’ll want to come back again and again, spending your children’s inheritance and yes, getting stage-fright before every trip and loving every minute of it.

Cheers,
River God

Got a burning question about rafting trips? Then it’s time to Ask A River God. Send us your questions, and we’ll put our guides and staff to the test!

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Ask A River God: Thoughts on Packing

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“Hey Reeg,” I say, watching him wading chest deep, offshore in the frigid river, well past sundown, when most normal river guides should be sipping scotch (as I happen to be). He is sponging off the scum line from his hand-made dory, the Escalante, his beauty and dream.

He looks up at my quizzical smile, offering up all I will get: his characteristically inscrutable look through a knowing gray beard, saying nothing.

He doesn’t talk much anyway, though I must admit he himself is probably expecting a typically smart-aleck comment from me. I must, of course, oblige. Over the years I’ve been observing, and finally have been drawn into participating in this little pre-Lava ceremony since I came to the Dories.

“So, Regan, is that a ritual? Tradition? Superstition?”

“Tradition” is all he says, and gets back to work. He doesn’t want to get into a long-winded conversation about it. Partly because he’s the near-naked sopping wet freezing one, partly because that’s just who he is, anyway.

“Superstition,” mutters a client sideways, wandering by along the beach.

I smile and watch Regan for a while, then the conch shell blows and its time to eat and entertain before wandering off to my dory’s deck to watch the stars wheel within our exquisite little band of sky. As I drift off to sleep on my deck, listening to the riffle’s whoosh and as naked as my soul will be just thirteen miles downstream, this little exchange won’t let me be. And so, giving in, I secretly slip over the side into the gentle eddy current, ever-present dory sponge in hand, to wash off my own craft’s scum line. Tonight a glistening Sam McGee. Tomorrow, Lava Falls.

Sliding slowly into the tongue of liquid silk which conveys one into the maelstrom known as Granite Falls, I wink and tell my clients to hold on, high-side the sh..t out of this one, and watch Dr. Dre (a.k.a. Andre Potochnick, our trip leader), who is piloting his graceful but insubstantial Black Canyon in front of us. I know without question he is about to initiate his own little ritual. As if on cue, he rises to his feet in his boatman’s footwell, nonchalantly hitches up his worn, stained Patagonia red knickers, stretches his arms high above, then clasps them behind his head, and adjusts his sombrero, all the while contemplating the insane path he has once again chosen.

Go ahead and call it what you like. At its heart it’s really about respect. Respect of the thin ribbon between life and death. Respect of the power of a river, which, perhaps with the same ever-increasing speed with which old age comes, or maybe with the slow eternity it takes for our first kiss to get here already, is still always taking you somewhere.  I know I’m small. Please let me through.

Red lipstick, colorful ribbons plaited in the hair. Old fingerless gloves, or my dead friend Ray Interpreter Junior’s keening howl. Wesley’s bubble bath in the footwells whilst the nervous boatmen were busy scouting Lava.

Yeah. Heroes. Keeping our craft upright, our clients safe, and our egos and boats un-bashed. Not to mention slicing the tomatoes no more than 3 millimeters thick, tearing down La Pooperia, leading hikes to waterfalls and overlooks we’ve seen a hundred times and pray we get to see another hundred.

Human, more like it. Ibuprofen popping, mostly hard drinking (never to the point of drunkenness or hangover, of course), watching our bodies age and skin develop scary little black things quivering masses of…what did a friend call us? “Talented misfits.” Why we’re here is as much about not ever being able to quite fit into the man-made, rule-infested, badge-wielding, follow-the-leader world as it is about pretending to be some sort of demigod. It is no more about that illusion now than it was a thousand years ago, when some lucky bastard tripped just before the arrow hit him, and a legend was born. We boatmen cope by stumbling our way through a world which daily wallops us in the backside with its unwillingness to be controlled, its fierce independence and wild beauty, its absolute acceptance. Kind of like the woman that chose me to be her mate.

For me, it’s dipping into the river like a holy baptism in the Church of Get Up and Do It, in the scout eddy just upstream of whichever rapid has its hold on me that particular year, which eternally seems to include Hance, Crystal, and Lava Falls. ALWAYS Hance. Crystal, and Lava Falls. And a ragged print shirt. I can’t tell you which one, having worn through so many over nearly forty years. Suffice to say, it’s whatever piece of gaily colored cotton or rayon that is my current treasure and solace. It used to be my trusty hat: straw in the early hippie years, now an off-white Stetson beaver-felt cowboy hat called, the “Gus,” with three ventilation holes on either side and a “stampede” strap to keep it put. Holds the nice, cold water a long time in that hot stinkin’ desert. Nowadays, however, what with all the dang rule-makers busy as little beavers up there on the rim, I gotta wear a helmet in the biguns.

A helmet, for crissakes. Most of us that came down here did so because, well, let’s just be nice and say we’re iconoclasts by nature. Anti-authoritarian. Individualistic. You’d trust me with your life, but not your wife or daughter. You’d grip my wrist and let me haul your behind up that last chockstone in Saddle Canyon, but dollars to doughnuts you wouldn’t hire me to run your business. No worries. I wouldn’t want to, anyway.

And always, everyone, raft or dory or kayak, motor or oar, commercial or private trip, friend or stranger–always just as we push off to go run it, this exultant shout of joy and release, ecstasy and tension. A bellow of freedom given without reservation to all comrades within earshot, including whatever spirits happen to be winging in, watching the show. Echoed above the thunder and held aloft by the blazing air, soaring ever higher, eyes clear, hearts vulnerable yet stout, body as ready as worn shoulders, wrists and backs allow:

“Have a great run!”

After all, these are your pards. They have your behind and you have theirs. They’re going through just exactly the same belly-groaning joy you are. The clients cannot help but notice, are keen to join in. It’s all a bout the camaraderie. Sure, we love our river. Our Canyon. Our desert. We’re the luckiest bastards alive. But without each other, what are we? Without these things, how else do we gird our loins for battle or dance?

Our rituals hold us and place us just so, in the right spot on the earth, remind us we are not the first or the last. They help us pay tribute to some higher power I cannot name but plainly feel with every step I take down there. Try, and often fail, to remind myself of up here.
Which is why I keep going back.

In my garage, I have scrawled a note and pinned it to the wall. My wife understands, even as it makes her ache a little:

“Anywhere else, I am something less.”

This Grand Canyon rafting trip story is scheduled to appear in the Winter issue of Canyon Voices and will be featured among other established and emerging artists, not only from Arizona, but from all over the country.

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The post Grand Canyon River Rituals appeared first on River Currents.

Hi, O.A.R.S.,

I have taken 2 trips with you (the Tatshenshini River trip and the Chilco trip) and was last with you, on the Chilcotin, about 7 years ago. As then, I still have arthritis so am unable to paddle on a river trip, but the Grand Canyon trips always look wonderful from your pics and write-ups. I would especially like to go down that river in a dory.

Would that be possible for me? Would I be better suited, as I would have difficulty rowing, in a raft or is that, too, rather out of my capabilities?

Glad you are still taking people to these many places … Living where I do, in Nelson, BC, I have experienced much of the natural landscape so know how much these kind of offerings mean to an ever more human-imprinted world,

 — Cheers, Glenda

Dear Glenda,

The Tat and the Chilco/Chilcotin are 2 of the coolest rivers ever. The Colorado through the Grand Canyon is more than just an incredible river trip. It’s about the enchantment, being soaked in magic as well as cold water.

It’s just that good. You will love it, or I’ll eat my toque.

You don’t need to paddle, darlin’. Just dance with the water like you already have, and you’re in. I happened to pioneer Grand Canyon river trips for folks with disabilities, so I know what I’m talking about (for a change).

First off, dories are absolutely the most graceful and fun craft on the river. As Grand Canyon Dories’ founder Martin Litton once said: “They just BELONG!”.

There are plenty of places to hang on to in a dory (which is a good thing if I’m rowing), and they’re more comfy to sit in than most rafts. Padded seat. Wood handles. Backrest. Cup holder. Satellite radio. (Just kidding on those last 2).

I have to assume you have meds for your arthritis, and that all that rocking and rolling and leaning into the waves that your body hasn’t done in years is going to be OK after a pill and some sleep on a foam pad.

I also have to assume that you’ll be able to hold on in whitewater (like riding the hood of your car while going through the car wash), and if on the off-chance you end up in the drink, you can dog-paddle around in your life jacket until we pick your soggy behind up. Also that you can walk on sandy, sometimes rocky beaches at camp, just like on your previous rivers.

Riding in a dory is a bit more active than in a raft, since you have to keep the thing “trim” by leaning this way and that, and have to lean into the waves. I have taken some folks in dories that had a weaker grip on things. Come to think of it, I myself generally have a rather weak grip on things.

You just have to be honest with yourself, and with O.A.R.S., about your condition. I’d suggest a chat with Joy in the office, or she can direct you to my lovely wife, Carrie, who has joined me on several dory trips, as well as those original Jumping Mouse disabled trips. She’ll know the questions to ask, can help you evaluate whether you’ll be able to go or not, and whether or not you might consider bringing along a helper for camp.

If you end up going, the crew will need to be aware of your abilities and dis-abilities, so they’re prepared. They might want to put you in a bigger boat, or make sure the water levels will be right, or have a strong hand available to help out when needed.

I’m all about accessing the wilderness for all. I created and led the first Grand Canyon river trips for folks with disabilities, including paraplegic folks, people with M.S., M.D., C.P., all those acronyms. With a little pre-trip planning and thought, I’d say feed your soul.

(Come to think of it, I say that all the time).

— River God

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My family of five will be going on the Middle Fork Salmon trip August 2. We all love to fly fish for trout. Question is should we bring fly fishing gear, is there room in the boats, and will there be time to do any fishing in the evening or other times?

— Thanks, Craig Adams

Dear Craig,

Asking if you should bring fly fishing gear to the Middle Fork of the Salmon River is kinda like asking if you should bring your eyeglasses to the Miss America contest. Tums to the jalapeño festival? Mosquito repellant to Alaska?

If you don’t bring your fly gear with you, you will be kicking yourself. I’ll help. Get a license, make it happen. I’ll bet you dinner at Red Lobster you catch 10 fish a day. And that’s if you only fish at camp.

I know it’s your vacation. Gird your loins. Get up at dawn, before breakfast, and watch the spectacular sunrise while everyone complains about how much you whoop and holler at all those fish you’re catching. Get out your gear after the boats get into camp every afternoon and disappear with your favorite beer. I doubt you’ll have time to drink it.

If you fish off the raft during the day, make that 20 fish. Thirty? Rainbows, Browns, Brooks, Dolly Partons (or is that Varden?) … I’m no fisherman, but we’re talking THE premier trout fishing river in the world. Fishermen and women salivate at the mere mention. They often pay double to do it, too.

There’s room. They’ll make room. The eyeballs of most of our guides up there go a little goofy any time you mention fly fishing, dribble starts in the corners of their mouths. If they find out you’re crazy, too, they will take you in and teach you their secrets and maybe even share their single malt with you. Nuff said.

I like mine with garlic and butter.

— River God

The post Ask A River God: What If I *Really* Like To Fly-Fish? appeared first on River Currents.

Soon I will embark on the 10-day trip down the Grand Canyon, a dream of a lifetime.

My question is this about back support: I’ve been whitewater rafting in the past and and, in the excitement, I never gave a second thought to back support. But those were 1-, 2-, and 3-day trips. Ten days will be a new experience. Is there any way to strap on something like an adjustable canoe seat? Or is there room enough on the bottom of the boat, in calm waters, to sit my fanny down and lean on the raft seat if my back needs a rest? I don’t have a back “condition” of any sort, just the groans of 55 years of gravity and bipedal locomotion.

Looking forward to your response.

— All the best, Martha Turner

Dear Martha,

My back also sucks, after 58 years of rowing and paddling and lifting. Pilates and keeping toned has saved my behind … so far.

Assuming from your question you’re on a raft and not a dory, I’d say this one is easy-peezy. Get yourself a Crazy Creek chair. It’ll pack light, clip on or slip under the frame pad for whitewater, provides an adjustable backrest, and because its small and easy to deal with, won’t tick off your guides. I had a client on my last trip that used one, but I forgot to steal it at the end of the trip. You can also take it to your camp for evening and morning use.

You won’t be comfortable sitting in the bilge. It’s wet, jiggles a lot, and probably harbors 24 people’s worth of foot fungus. As for your fanny, I married an Australian gal, and no longer use that term. It doesn’t mean the same thing Down Under!

I’m so glad you’re finally getting around to your dream. It was mine, too, 37 years ago. Only I just never woke up from that first magical time. A hundred and twenty-something times later, I’m still dreaming!

— River God

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Thanks for the opportunity to ask the guides (gods) a couple questions. My wife and I have a trip from Phantom Ranch to Whitmore Wash coming up at the end of July. I believe we’re ready as far as having all the items recommended on the packing list. My question is, as a guide what are some additional items have you seen travelers bring that made you say, “Wow, that was a great idea to bring?”

— Troy & Kathy Blair

Dear Troy & Kathy:

You’re going to have a ball. Show up in shorts, sneakers, sunhat and sunglasses, and the world will be your oar-ster. Don’t fret about what you’ll absolutely need or else. Once you’re down there, everything will drop away. €“I’ve even seen teenage girls forget about their cell phones.

O.A.R.S. has spent years putting together a great list of stuff. That said, some things you might never use (say, for example, your million-dollar Patagonia raincoat if there’s no rain on your trip). Some things might have been handy if we’d only known you like to crochet whilst listening to Beethoven running backwards.

What’s critical will be that you keep your eyes open, your spirit free, and your attitude ready to appreciate the most incredible place on the planet.

With those caveats, here’s some hints that might help you through:

• Imagine how many beers you might drink while barbecuing prawns on the barbie on a hot day. Multiply that by how many days you’ll be down there. Bring just a smidgen extra for the new friends you’re going to make. (Guides can be your friend, too!)
• Bring enough spare batteries for your camera, or even a cable and small backup/solar charger. Also enough memory on your flash card for a couple thousand photos. Seriously.
• July is monsoon season. It hasn’t hit yet this year, but if it does, you’ll be glad you didn’t ignore the part about bringing GOOD raingear. The K-Mart crap is just that, and will leave you wondering how you got hypothermia in the desert.
• I bring my Kindle, but any way you like to read, bring just one really good book each. Trade if you finish. You probably won’t. Check out the O.A.R.S. suggestions regarding the Grand Canyon.
• Bring some earplugs for the chopper.
• Bring extra medical scripts, just in case. If you tend to get “cold sores,” bring a lot of lysine (an amino acid available in the vitamin section). Pound it before and during. Your lips will thank you for this little miracle.
• Make sure all your eyeglasses and hats have a string or clip to attach to your life jacket. May the wind at your back not be your own.
• Bring face wash pads. Comes in handy for when you get in late to camp and don’t want to bathe in the beautiful, frigid Colorado. They’re not restricted to the face, if you know what I mean.
• DON’T bring extra snacks. We’re going to gorge you, and the ringtail cats and ravens just love to tear your tent or bag open when they smell that Ghirardelli’s chocolate. Then we get to patch your stuff, and stow your extras where we keep our dirty socks.
• If you’re knees are a bit fragile when pounding them with a hammer for 5 hours, consider walking sticks for the hike down. Takes 20% of the stress off your knees. You can stow them for the rest of the trip if you want. Eat calcium-magnesium tablets like candy for a week before your hike, and practice hiking downhill a lot. Then you won’t need as much Ibuprofen when you get to the bottom.

My best advice? It’ll be hot. Bring a good, Zen-like attitude. It’s the desert. Forget the rest of the world exists. They didn’t name it the Grand Canyon for nothing.

— River God

The post Ask A River God: Thoughts On Packing appeared first on River Currents.

Trust me. More than a few folks have limped their way to and from the boats, missing hikes to waterfalls and swimming holes because they’re too beat up, eating ibuprofen like candy.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. With a little bit of effort before your trip, you will not only enjoy the hike, you’ll have a pair of legs to take you to some mind-blowing places downstream. Honest.

As for hiking out, the unprepared hallucinate through an eternity of suffering; the fit have a really cool desert trail experience. Your call.

So, having gotten that bit of tough love out of the way, what to do?

The Trail Of All Trails

The Bright Angel Trail follows an old Native American route into the Grand Canyon from the South Rim. It follows a fault line through otherwise impenetrable cliffs for thousands of vertical feet, like pretty much every other route into “The Big Ditch.” Comfortably on the rim, you’re seeing the canyon, but not really getting it. Yet. If you’ve come down the river with us and are hiking out, you get it, for sure. You’ve also been training on all those short river hikes we’ve been taking you on.

You take 300 steps down below the rim, and the universe changes into a wilderness. All of a sudden you get this feeling of vastness. An immensity of rock and desert. And that zig-zaggy thing that goes way down there with the little bugs moving along it until it disappears in the far blue haze? That’s where you’re headed, amigo.

Before you go, take the recommendations in your O.A.R.S. pre-trip package seriously. Take daily walks, in the park, on the beach, or to the market instead of driving. You know the drill. That’s D-A-I-L-Y.

How To Train For It

Start slow, a half-hour or so at a time. Build into an hour. Surely you can afford an hour a day for the trip of a lifetime? It can make all the difference. Pain sucks. Trust me.

Ideally, you’ll be training on hills (or, on the Stairmaster if you live in the Midwest). That’s where the knees come in. And the aerobics. It’s critical to work your heart and knees and hips for the pounding they’re in for. Up and down, down and up. So start several months out, get some good music on your iPod, NPR on podcast, and enjoy the day. It’s a good excuse, anyway.

OK, you’re fit. Now what? In summer, when it’s about a thousand degrees and the sun is baking your brains out, you’ll want a large-brimmed hat, sunglasses with UV protection, a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and the same in pants, and a good pair of tennies (or light-weight hiking boots if your ankles are like mine), with some cushioning in the sole.

Other Things To Bring

Of course, a water bottle is a must, though two liters is sufficient since on the “BA” there are plenty of watering holes where you can refill your bottle. I use a bandana as well, dunking it into the water fountains or creeks (upstream of the mule manure) at every chance. Getting wet and staying wet is the difference between heaven and hell. It takes getting used to being wet like that. But it’s like having a palm-frond fan and being fed grapes, watching all those poor heathens sweat — good desert trick to know.

During spring and fall, you just might encounter snow up on the rim. If you’re hiking you’ll probably stay warm, but not in a T-shirt. Synthetic or wool undies, a fleece for when you stop to snack or pee (and you will stop to snack and pee), and a wool cap. If you’re prepared, it’s stunning.

Did I say snacks? Your car doesn’t run without fuel, and neither do you. Fuel up, don’t get bloated, snack regularly: some carbs for instant energy, a little fat for later, and a bit of protein for the long haul.

If you take my advice, you will absolutely love the most popular trail in the Grand Canyon. If you stuff this in the “I’ll-get-a-round-to-it” pile, you will be thinking of me somewhere along your personal trail of tears.

Did I say trust me?

This essay was originally created for the 2011 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, request your catalog copy today!

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