When Grand Canyon Rafting Becomes Epic

Nov 22, 2013

The thing about travel is, we all want our trips to be perfect. But sometimes perfect is beyond our control: rains come, winds howl, sand blows and sifts in through the sides of your tent, piling up like powdered sugar.

This, of course, is when things start to get interesting.

My family and I took an epic Grand Canyon rafting trip a few years back. It was grand in every way: 12 days, three generations, six beautiful wooden dories slicing through some of the world’s biggest, gnarliest rapids.

But what is it we talk about whenever talk turns to the Grand Canyon?

Monsoon in the Grand Canyon

We talk about the moment our trip turned from grand to epic. That moment was something none of us ever could have anticipated—and now will never, ever, quite forget. It’s seared into our collective memory like a sort of shared family brand: the freak monsoon storm with its hundreds of pounding waterfalls. And the best part? We all survived easily, of course, and now have a great tale to tell. (Something we do with very little prompting whenever the subject of the Grand Canyon comes up.)

But let me set the scene for you: by week two of this particular trip, our Grand Canyon weather – which had been glorious – turned wacky.

“Man, we’re going to get pounded,” our boatman said one afternoon, pushing his oars beneath a purpling sky. He pulled on Gore-Tex for the first time in 10 days. It was August. Monsoon season…This looked serious. A mass of clouds moved in downstream, and although it had been raining steadily, the rain turned, bizarrely, to hail. It grew colder. We joked about the hammering precipitation. “Snowball fight!” someone yelled.

Then came the crack of thunder, and there wasn’t much joking. We entered the Muav Gorge section of the canyon, a sinister place to be in a storm. Limestone walls rise nearly 2,500 feet over the river here, and it’s narrow.

“There’s no way we’ll be going to Havasu tomorrow,” our guide predicted as we beached the boats. From the small camp where we stood, drenched and shivering, we could see two frappuccino-colored falls rocketing off the rim in front of us. We stared, in awe, as they morphed from picturesque cascades into six, then sixty, then hundreds of mud-spewing pounders thrumming off the canyon rim right above our heads.

Across the river? The same drama was unfolding: within 15 minutes the Grand Canyon had turned from a stone cathedral to a violent spectacle. Everywhere was rushing water, rock, and mud spewing down. To our immediate left, a dry creek-bed—where we’d been warned minutes before not to camp—was spewing semi-truck-sized waves of foamy muck. We watched, riveted, while the explosive water moved a massive, Sub-Zero-size boulder toward the river.

Each of us was suddenly acutely aware that we were standing at the bottom of the deepest drainage in North America. Erosion, typically more of a concept than a run-for-your-life drama, was happening, real time, all around us. It’s as if the canyon had literally sprung to life—water cascading off the cliffs, beaches breaking up. That’s right, the Grand Canyon wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for extreme erosion, I finally remembered, agape.

“You could be here 50 years and not see this,” our head guide Regan said, eyeing the situation like a hawk. That’s when his wife, Ote, announced army-style that we’d set up camp—right there in the wet sand. And we did. It might not be pleasant, but an abutment protected enough of the beach that we wouldn’t wash away.

We pitched our tents, pulled on dry clothes, had a soul-warming dinner of chicken tacos and tortilla soup our guides whipped up under a beach-tarp, then crawled into our tents and didn’t sleep very much.

By morning though, the waterfalls had utterly vanished, and the sun was shining. The only sign that anything had happened or been amiss was park service helicopters buzzing the river like angry mosquitoes. Downstream at Havasu, which has a history of flooding, water had swept away rafts, tents and supplies. Fifteen rafters were airlifted out of the canyon later that day after spending the night perched on a rock ledge in their bathing suits, just a few miles upstream from where their rafts were last seen before disappearing in a violent flash-flood surge.

What Regan and Ote had understood, and less-experienced rafters had not, is that flash floods can endanger people miles from an actual thunderstorm. They also knew Havasu has a history of flooding; in the last 100 years at least 16 major floods have swept through. Nearly all the floods resulting from torrential rains many miles away.

I stepped into Ote’s boat, buckled my life-vest, and we all pushed off again. The canyon held the pleasing smell of minerals, dirt, and tamarisk. Ote sent her 11-foot oars planing through the water with smooth, even strokes. As the blades emerged from each stroke, droplets flickered off the ends, flashing in the morning light.

Grand Canyon dories

Everything looked refreshed and cleansed.

I’d wanted to take an epic trip, to share an ultimate Grand Canyon adventure with my family. I’d wanted my boys to know the enormity of nature, to feel humbled by this place. And somehow? We’d hit the jackpot.

“You live your life for these moments,” my husband said, feet up, dragging a hand in the water.

No kidding, I thought, in the enormous stillness that filled the canyon. I looked around at the other contented faces of the group and felt that we had all been through something together. Something epic. Then I watched the river carry us away in our flotilla of small boats, thoroughly rinsed, wind-dried, and as alive as we’d ever be.

 

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Kim Brown Seely
Kim Brown Seely is a freelance writer and journalist living in the Pacific Northwest. Kim writes about adventure, nature, people, and the exotic corners of the world for a number of national publications. She is a contributing writer for Virtuoso Life, and her work has also appeared in National Geographic Adventure, Travel & Leisure, Town & Country, Sunset, Forbes FYI, and National Geographic Traveler.
  • Chris Offutt

    In the fall of 2006, I was on a private 16 day trip and it rained around the clock for the first 8 days. It was difficult packing a wet tent and trying to keep some clothes and the sleeping bag dry. The numerous waterfalls and flowing creeks were beautiful though….something I hadn’t experienced on previous trips. Though I wouldn’t want to have to wear wet “dry gear” again for as long as I did on that trip…..the trip was Epic~!

  • joachim

    this is indeed one of the great spectacles in the GC. We were hiking up Deer Creek in the morning, the weather turned cloudy and Regan decided we should go on. Up come a wedding party which had put up on the other side. We were going down river, the temperature fell considerably and rain started. Most sported some rain gear. We landed on the right side on a sandy beach and rain continued. After a short period of trickle from the walls waterfalls were plunging down from almost everywhere, I mean waterfalls some of the size of lower Yellowstone falls. Right across, bloody red two big waterfalls came down including some big rocks. Within about 20 min the level of the river rose by 1,5 m (about 1,5 yards) and we had to move the kitchen tent to higher level. Our tent, close to the wall, was situated between two small waterfalls. It was a bit frightening, but being with Regan we thought, if anybody knows it’s Regan! The rain stopped, we slept well, of course, how you sleep in the canyon. Next morning bls skies and bright sun.

    So we were silently gliding down on the water when we heard a rumble in the distance. What did we see: a huge rock was coming down really from the top crushing and hurrying down the wall of a side canyon. The guides told us that the size was probbaly that of a medium-sized house. BANG. Like the final rocket in a fireworks this concluded this episode. We have films, all sorts of pictures, unbelieveable. This was, by the way, our forth trip on a dory. Nothing comparable!.