03/09/2008

Theresa Dowell Blackinton
Special to the San Antonio Express-News

Our wake-up call — a drawn-out "hot coffee" — stirs us from our tents as it echoes off the canyon walls. Overhead a few bats flitter, ignoring the early rays of sun turning the towering rock a burning gold.

It's morning in the Grand Canyon. The river beckons.

The Grand Canyon greets more than 4 million visitors a year with striking vistas of plateau and gorge, sunshine and shadow. One of the seven natural wonders of the world, pilgrims from around the globe gather on the canyon's rim. Yet only a tiny percentage of visitors ever make it into the canyon's interior, from where the night sky is a brilliant curtain of diamond-crusted black and you can detect the layers of shale, schist and sandstone that make up this grandest of canyons.

More than a decade after being one of the many who peek down from the top, I became one of the few who get to look up from the bottom, thanks to an upper canyon rafting trip with Moki Mac River Expeditions.

Learning the ropes

Leading us are five boatmen (one actually a boatwoman) who, in the course of hundreds of trips down the river, have come to know this canyon as one knows a spouse. I trust they are all capable, but my husband, Jeff, and I throw our gear aboard the boat guided by Grant, a retired engineer, whose callused hands and 65-plus trips down this river I find reassuring.

The first day comes with a steep learning curve. Before we board the boats, we learn how to make sure our life jackets are secure, how to position ourselves for rapids and how to lie back and relax through quiet waters. There is a brief lesson on what to do if we fall overboard, along with assurances that this is quite unlikely.

A mile down the Colorado, right past where the Pariah River flows in, we learn that the natural state of the river is not clear as it seems at first but murky and muddy. And after the first set of riffles, we discover that the 5-gallon buckets and old detergent bottles clipped to the boat have a purpose — bailing.

Running the rapids

As soon as we're on the river, I'm thinking about the rapids. To my novice ears, each movement of water sounds ominous. I picture crashing waves, massive drops and forbidding rocks. Maj. John Wesley Powell's fantastic account of his discovery trip through the canyon, which I read before my trip, has created monsters in my mind.

Nearing the first rapids a few miles into the trip, my heart rate quickens and I mentally run through a list of what-ifs.

But before I can actually get worried about ending up overboard, we're through. We've been jostled about and waves have leapt up at the boat wetting our feet and seats, but these rapids, about a 4 or 5 on the canyon's scale of 10, were just a tease. I learn to be more discerning.

And on the first afternoon, I learn that the sound of a true rapid is impossible to miss. Before we can see anything, before even a ripple runs across the water, we can hear the sound of water rushing, colliding. With each dip of our guide's oar, the sound grows until it seems to blot out everything else. Hands grasp for the ropes; bodies lean in to avoid being tossed. Grant yells out a last command to hold on, and suddenly we're bucking across the waves. From left, right and center, waves rise up and then merge into a massive wall of water. Our raft slams headfirst into it. An exuberant "yahoo" erupts from Grant, and as I turn to watch him wrestle the river, a storm of freezing water washes over me. It's shocking. It's exhilarating. I can do nothing but laugh.

On Day 3, we up the ante, awaking to find an inflated kayak, or duckie, lined up next to the boats. Jeff eagerly volunteers us to be the first riders, and I gamely go along with the plan, my brain still too foggy to remember that it might be hours before the sun makes it over the soaring canyon walls and yet unaware that the kayak is self-bilging, meaning it has holes in both the back and front to allow water to flow in and out.

As soon as I sit down, I'm covered with a few inches of ice cold water. But in just a few minutes, that will seem like nothing. We're still working on getting our strokes coordinated when I hear the telltale rumble of an upcoming rapid. I listen to instructions from one of the boats behind us, while my husband tries to memorize the path the boats in front follow. There's no option but to go forward, and we're soon sucked into the roiling water.

"Straight, straight, straaaiiight," I yell to my husband, who is in charge of steering, as I paddle madly. We've been warned that we're likely to flip if we hit a wave sideways, and at 8 a.m., that's the last thing I want to do.

We twist and turn, and it seems impossible to hit all the waves straight on. But somehow, despite waves completely overtaking us, we make it through. We're soaking wet but paddling too hard to notice. I feel as if I might have the beginning of an idea of what it is that brings our guides back year after year.

Exploring the canyon

But it's not just the river that entrances; it's also the rock formations, seemingly ever changing in color, height and composition. In the morning, the tops of the canyon walls glow yellow, and as the sun sets, they burn red. Terms such as Toroweap Formation, Coconino Sandstone and Bright Angel Shale become part of my vocabulary as I learn to distinguish between layers of rock, each hundreds of millions of years old.

So much about this canyon is incomprehensible. But at the same time so much of it is entirely tangible, ready to be held, clambered over and splashed under.

When we stop early one morning for a hike to Indian granaries, the sun hasn't yet reached the water, but it's blazing on the rocks, not a trace of shade to be found. We can see the trail climbing nearly straight up, so a few of the group elect to stay below, taking shelter under a huge beach umbrella one of the boatmen raises, as if we're vacationing in the Caribbean.

Those of us braving the hike grab water and cameras, then follow Clair Quist, the owner of Moki Mac, up the trail. He moves as if walking across a flat prairie, putting us all to shame as we rest with our hands on our knees, gulping water, panting heavily while he effortlessly points out a collared lizard, a mesquite tree and the sacred datura, a plant traditionally used in native rituals.

My muscles scream from the exertion of the climb, yet every time I look up to note our progress, it seems we have hardly gained any ground. But just before my legs can turn to jelly, leaving me as a puddle on the dusty trail, we reach a series of gentle switchbacks that lead us right to our goal.

The granaries, rooms cut into the canyon's wall in which the tribes that once migrated between the canyon's rim and interior would store food, are impressive, but I'm more blown away by the view.

From the ledge where we perch, the river unfolds in front of us, twisting lazily back and forth like a snake sunning itself. I, like the many others who have made this the most photographed image of the canyon's interior, snap away as if it's possible to capture the dizzying heights of the walls, the intensity of the sky and the power of the river.

The reward of this hike is great, but as I roast in the heat, I'm not sure it can compare to my favorite hikes — those to waterfalls. Tucked away in side canyons, hidden behind craggy stretches of shining black Vishnu schist and found by following the warm, clear waters of creeks are waterfalls. Some trickle down, some rush, one even shoots out vertically with the force of a fire hose.

All are refreshing and relaxing, a true treat after hours on the muddy Colorado under a fiery sun. No one ever stays behind on those hikes.

Life at camp

By the time we stop to set up camp on the last night, we're all pros. We hunt out shady spots near the water to throw up our tents, and then we gather around the cooking area to indulge in the most gourmet food I've ever had outdoors. Steaks, portobello mushrooms, blackened catfish, crisp corn on the cob and chocolate cake all make an appearance at dinnertime.

As twilight takes over, we sit and chat, gleaning knowledge from the guides as they read stories to us of the river's early rafters or provide an animated account of the endangered California condor's fight for survival.

As night falls, which it does early, we lay back and watch shooting stars punctuate the darkness and listen to the murmur (and roar) of the river. I wonder if those gathered at the rim have any idea what they're missing.

If you go
Start your research on Grand Canyon rafting at the Web site of the Grand Canyon River Outfitters Association (www.gcroa.org), which provides information on the 16 outfitters certified by the National Park Service and provides a step-by-step guide to booking a trip.
•What the trip entails: Rafting trips range from three to 18 days. Longer trips cover the entire 280 miles of the Colorado River that run through the Grand Canyon. Upper canyon trips range from Lee's Ferry to Phantom Ranch (87 miles), while lower canyon trips range from Phantom Ranch to Lake Mead (193 miles). Different outfitters offer different types of boats, including motor-powered rafts, oar-powered rafts, traditional wooden dories and the inflatable kayaks called duckies. Trips fill quickly, and many outfitters take reservations up to two years in advance.
• Trip costs: The six-day upper canyon trip with Moki Mac River Expeditions (www.mokimac.com), the outfitter we traveled with, costs $1,820 for the 2008 season. The nine-day lower canyon trip costs $2,690, and the 14-day full canyon trip costs $3,570. The outfitter can help with pre-and post-trip transportation and accommodations, but costs are the responsibility of the traveler.
•Other attractions: You may want to consider beginning your vacation a few days early or staying a few days after the trip ends so you can further explore the Grand Canyon and compare the views from the rim with the views from below. Visit the official Grand Canyon Web site (www.nps.gov/grca) for information on lodging, hikes and ranger programs.
Our trip down the mighty Colorado River begins at Lee's Ferry. A current of excitement ripples through our group of 15 — a motley crew ranging in age from 18 to the mid-60s — as we load our gear onto the 18-foot inflatable rafts on which we will traverse the Grand Canyon.

Theresa Dowell Blackinton is a freelance writer based in Bethesda, Md. You can read about her upcoming travels at www.livesofwander.com.