The Magic of the Colorado River

A fun story by guest contributor Patricia “Patch” McCairen

To help us kick off our 60th anniversary celebrations this year, we asked the AzRA community to share memories from the past. We’re starting off with Patch’s story! You can see a post about her solo Grand Canyon adventure which is linked below too. 

It’s always that first time–first time riding a horse, first time trekking in Nepal, first time falling in love, first time walking along the Seine. All memorable. All good. Nothing, however, can measure up to the first time joining a Colorado River trip though Grand Canyon. 

My first trip was in 1975 with ARTA (AzRA). Good grief–50 years ago! It doesn’t seem that long, primarily because it is the most significant event of my life. I signed up alone, which has been something I’ve done since I was in my early twenties and had to choose whether to go or not to go, that was the question. I quickly learned that joining a trip where I didn’t know anyone else was a positive experience. In many cases, more positive than going with a friend. It allowed unrestricted opportunity to meet new people which certainly enhanced my experience.   

The rafts were oar-powered, twenty-two foot, silver pontoon rigs. That silver color could heat up significantly under the intense Canyon sun. As I remember, every guest on that trip only made the mistake of sitting on a tube without checking it first one time. The searing pain on bare thighs left a lasting impression, if not on the skin then in the memory. A few years later, AzRA began painting the pontoons white. A big improvement.    

The boatmen, handsome, bronzed Gods to my impressionable mind, wore cutoff shorts, no shirts, and dilapidated tennis shoes. We guests appeared to believe that the more colorful we were, the better. This included a rainbow of t-shirts, shorts, as well as the fashion statement for women at that time: pedal-pushers.    

As we waited in anticipation we were handed two black, army surplus, waterproof bags, each about the size of a large pillowcase. One to stow our sleeping bag and pad, the other for clothing and personal accessories. These were our own things, not gear supplied by the company, and as a result, were often of a size that wasn’t compatible with the black bag. Grumbling, along with a few choice swear words, accompanied the frustrating endeavor of packing too much into too small a space. Somehow, we accomplished this and handed our bags to the guides who tied them securely onto the rafts.   

Head guide, Dave Lowry, gave the safety talk. He spoke in a soft, patient voice that flowed over us with the consistency of velvet sliding over a manicured hand.    

“We try not to let it happen, but people can get hurt on these trips.” His brows dipped and he stroked his beardless chin. “We’ve never actually lost anyone that I can think of. If you fall into the river, relax and keep your mouth shut. You’ll get tossed around a bit but your life vest will bring you to the surface. Don’t get between the raft and a rock, or under the raft either. And don’t panic. We’ll pick you up as quickly as possible. It’s probably more dangerous on shore than it is in the boat or in the river. When you’re on land, keep an eye out for rattlesnakes and scorpions. We’re uninvited guests in their home, and they get a bit cranky if you step on them, or put them on with your clothes. Shake everything out before you put it on, and look under trees and overhanging rocks before you get out of the sun, because they’re trying to do the same thing.”   

When Dave completed his talk we were handed an orange life vest, appropriately called a Mae West. We were emphatically instructed to put it on and keep it on anytime we were on the rafts. It was a descriptive name for once on, the front ballooned out from my chin to my waist. Ties closed the top and bottom of the jacket and a strap with a buckle clasped it in the mid-section. We were assured that should we fall into the river and be knocked unconscious the jacket would float us face up. At that point, I wondered exactly what I had signed onto.   

Dave glanced behind him at the waiting pontoon rigs. “It’s time to go now. Tighten up your vests and get aboard. We’ll fill you in on things as we go along.”   

I hesitated, which put me in the back of the eagerly waiting crowd who rushed forward to claim a spot on a chosen raft. I selected the last remaining space on a boat with five elderly passengers and a boatman named Phil Towne at the oars. First names were flung out, and in a parental way everyone advised me to hang onto a rope running down the center of the raft. I preferred to stand up and look around to see where we were going but I complied.  

We floated a few miles downstream on a river that was deep green in color and not at all turbulent before stopping for lunch. Suddenly, the calm was disturbed by activity as the guides jumped off the rafts and went into action. A large folding table was set up in the shade of a cliff that did nothing to alleviate the 100 degree heat. A lunch, that would make a gourmet deli envious, was set out. It seemed magical to me. Where had all this food been hiding? Once set up, the guides stepped back to allow the guests to dive in. Each person made the equivalent of a Dagwood sandwich which was followed by fresh apples and oranges along with a variety of cookies. Chocolate chip being a favorite were enhanced with mushy chips that were melting in the heat.   

We ate, then clambered back onto the rafts. A short time later we glided down the slick tongue of our first rapid. I clung onto the center rope, trying hard to see where we were going. Frothy, white water soaked me and everyone else on the raft.  

Wet! I didn’t expect to be so wet! The raft dipped and rose, dipped and rose. Something within me snapped. With each motion I screamed–not a cry of fear or pain but of utter joy, released enthusiastically, naturally. I was vulnerable and open and totally happy. I was a child again, uninhibited, wild and free, riding a roller coaster with the excitement and anticipation of hanging on the brink before plunging down the near vertical slope. As the water calmed, I leaped up, threw back my head and shouted at the top of my lungs: “This is fantastic!”   

 

We camped on a fine sand beach that night, spreading out and relaxing in as many ways as there were people: Gail, another solo traveler from New York City, wrote in her diary, John recorded the river’s voice, Phil went off to meditate, Peter played his flute, Ingrid sketched. I lolled on the beach, wiggling my hips and shoulders until the sand and I were a perfect match, while I observed the subtleties of light on the quietly flowing river and cliffs that towered over us.    

When the kitchen crew called dinner, we filled ourselves with steak, corn on the cob, potato salad, and fresh strawberries sitting on Dutch oven biscuits, smothered in whipped cream.   

Everything about the trip was new. The Canyon walls rising up higher each day, presenting unknown, unthought of spectacles that included caves large enough to play a game of volleyball in and waterfalls that sprung out of dark holes in the massive Redwall Limestone. A short hike to the hidden grotto of Elves Chasm allowed me and others to enter a fairytale world, to climb up behind the waterfall and jump into the pool below. A hike up a steep trail to the top of Deer Creek gave the daring a chance to climb down into the narrow chasm and wade through the crystal clear water. As we hiked back down the trail to the boats another trip stopped us short. Members of a chartered, commercial trip gathered at the base of the 180 foot falls. Three naked women dove off a ledge into the pool while photographers aimed their cameras. We soon learned that it was all for a Playmates in Grand Canyon article in an upcoming Playboy Magazine. Needless to say, everyone on my trip was fascinated. Well, okay, the guys more than the gals.   

As the trip drew to a close each stop along the way gained in significance. We explored special places: the blue-green waters of Havasu Canyon enchanted us, we had our adrenaline pumped in Lava Falls, we walked as a group up Fern Glen Canyon where the daring climbed up a dry waterfall, and finally we sat beneath a silver waterfall in Travertine Canyon. At first impression, this appeared to simply be a physical exploration until the subtle significance of being in a truly wild place entered everyone’s psyche. When the river’s current ended we slowed to a leisurely pace on the still waters of Lake Mead, created by Hoover Dam. Our guides quickly tied the four rafts together to form a floating barge. A simple dinner was prepared by head cook, Peter Winn and passed from hand to hand to all on board. Sleeping bags were unpacked and everyone found a comfortable niche. As dusk overtook daylight, Phil strummed on his guitar and voices softened to enjoy our last night on the river.    

We said goodbye at Pierce’s Ferry. Hugs and promises to keep in touch all around. In my case I did just that, visiting newly made friends in the San Francisco Bay area.   

That beginning precipitated a life change for me. I returned to my apartment on the island of Manhattan in New York City stunned by my experience on the Colorado River through Grand Canyon. I tried hard to explain the impact the trip had had to my coworkers but all I received in return were puzzled expressions. Slowly, I considered options, rejected them, then reconsidered them again. Then I remembered something Peter said: “Most people are too afraid to give up their security to do what they really want.” That did it. Six months later I went for it, selling most of my belongings, packing up the rest, and quitting my job at a major airline. A year after the Grand trip I attended White Water School, which naturally led to becoming a river guide. 

Seven years after my first ARTA/AzRA trip, I put my fifteen foot Avon Professional raft into the Colorado River at Lees Ferry to begin my seventh trip: Alone. Twenty-five days from Lees Ferry to Pierce’s Ferry that proved to be another life changing event, which I describe in Canyon Solitude, A Woman’s Solo Raft Trip on the Colorado River through Grand Canyon. If you’d like to read it, please contact me at: PatriciaMcCairen@gmail.com. 

 

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