Into Cataract Canyon
An Account of Some of the Events of May 2009
by Bob Caplan

Part I

Rendezvous

4:30 AM. I rarely use an alarm these days, preferring and able to afford the luxury of waking to the rhythm of Earth’s clock. This morning is different.

Anita drives me along the lit, mostly empty streets whose surfaces, damp from the night’s sea air, reflect the taillights of the few other cars out this early. I nurse a mug of coffee. Breakfast will come later, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on heavy bread from the Scottish lady who sells at the Farmer’s Market overlooking the ocean.

“You’ll call when you get out, Bob?”

“As soon as we’re in a cell tower area.”

The stream of cars thicken. We're at the departure level. A kiss, “have fun!”

“Will do. I love you, sweetheart.”

I heft my backpack, shoulder the waterproof camera case, and walk towards airline check-in. Security seems unconcerned with the unusual camera case and the couple of carabiners dangling from it. I grab a NY Times. Weather page. Denver looks good, chance of showers. I’ve already checked Moab. Hot, sunny. Piece of cake.

Two days earlier, friend Rich Henke pulled out of my driveway with our Tundra pickup. In its back, deflated, were a specialized inflatable white water canoe, a four-person paddle raft, and larger oaring raft, the type one sees shooting the “The Grand” (Grand Canyon). Rich, in his mid-60s, has impressive physical strength, stamina, and good judgment. He was among the first Americans to have climbed Dhaulagiri, one of the Himalaya’s premier 8000-meter peaks, and he did it without the benefit of oxygen. He is also a superb adventure photographer. If you’re planning a trip to some corner of this earth and he’s been there, you’re in luck. He keeps detailed notes.

It’s Monday morning. Rich would have stopped by now in Boulder City, Nevada to pick up Howard Booth and his wife, Ursula Booth-Wilson, seasoned explorers. Howard is an expert kayaker and incredibly strong hiker. His wiry appearance, pleasant laugh, and 82 years-in-the-making wisdom remind me of the late Jacques Cousteau. Ursula is a few years younger than Howard, a strong person physically and in demeanor. You don’t have to guess what she’s thinking, and by the same token, when her thoughts and everyone else’s are out on the table, she’s a superb team member.

By now, Rich, Howard, and Ursula would have reached Green River, Utah, to rendezvous with Craig Miller, who is driving down from Seattle. Craig is a member of the Seattle Mountaineers. He is one of the most competent, keep-your-cool-when all-hell-breaks-loose, people I know. He’s also got tremendous strength and stamina. He’s the youngest of us, 60, and like the rest of us, retired, if you call this and the many other things most of us do, retiring. Craig has worked as a professional river rafter and and is a trip leader into the Himalayas. By now, Craig would have tossed his gear in the back of the Tundra, and the four would have driven to a put-in a couple of hours float above Moab, Utah.

Dave Jaquette, the organizer of the trip would have left for the same put-in spot at about the same time as Rich did. Dave would be driving from Palos Verdes, California. With him would be Earl Veits from Los Angeles and Ed Kirstein from Maine. Dave’s van would be carrying the aluminum frame for the large raft in the Tundra and other gear and supplies.

Dave has one of the longest histories of river running in the group. He’s lean and strong. “Good genes,” he once told me. Genes it might be. His son is a professional river guide and expert kayaker.

Dave is a self-described worrier. We all benefit from his cautionary thinking, although he assures us that he could do with a little less. Craig Miller has described Dave as “the guy you want to follow through a rapid. Dave reads rapids better than anyone I know.” Dave has a knack for bring adventuresome people together for, well, high adventure.

Earl Veits and Ed Kirstein have less experience with river running but have a long history of hiking in the outdoors. Both are in good physical condition. For Earl, the big water agenda is a new one. Understandably, he’s a little concerned. And, if I have this right, he’s the guy who will sit under a cottonwood by the shore, writing out his will on a pocket sized notepad, just in case he doesn’t live to read this account.

So dealt such a hand, where do I insert myself? I’m described as a strong paddler and a sometime humorist. Hopefully I’m the latter when there’s the time and place, usually around a campfire, to make light of what otherwise deserves to be serious.

In common, most of retired from careers that emphasized strategic thinking, coordination, attention to detail, thought before action, concern about safety or risk minimization. There’s a past chief financial officer, meteorologist, intensive care nurse, operations research engineer, education administrator, statistical analyst and organizational scientist, and two of the group have had exposure to pilot training. Darn, I forgot to ask if anyone knew how to swim.

As you have probably surmised by now, we’ve got a date with a river, a big one with big rapids surrounded by some of the greatest natural beauty on earth, the steep canyons of the American Southwest. So how is it that my friends are probably sitting on a sandy beach under sandstone cliffs, having a cup of java and a few bowls of oatmeal while I’m 30,000 feet up in the jet stream? It couldn’t be otherwise. Yesterday, Anita and I were hosting an annual Fulbright Scholar fieldtrip on coastal ecology. We walked with docents into dimly lit rooms of the Cabrillo Beach Aquarium to look at displays of jellyfish. We stepped on rocks matted with sea grass and barnacles to peer into nearby tide pools.

To catch up with the group, I’d jet in. Everyone was amenable. “Bob,” suggested Anita, “this is exactly the kind stuff you guys like to do. You guys probably thrive on such craziness.” Thrive seems a bit strong, but I buy the point. Let’s see. Fly to Denver. Jump on a small plane that hops backwards (only option) over the Rockies to tiny Moab. Get a shuttle van to meet me at the airport for a short ride to nearby bridge. Jump in a raft and start paddling. And wait! There’s more. I’d even get some frequent flyer miles!
The seatbelt sign goes on. A tug pushes the plane begins back from the LAX gate.

The plane climbs up over the beaches and breakers. I look down at first light on the Pacific’s waters. We turn and fly across the California and Nevada deserts. I finish reading the morning the paper and eat my sandwich and an apple. The Rockies are hidden under cloud cover.
Touch down. As we taxi toward the gate, I see the prairie and then the profile of the Rockies.

“Moab flight, gate 61A?”

“To you left, just across the lounge, sir.”

Everything’s going like clockwork. I call Dave Jacquette’s cell phone. He’s out of range, but he’ll have the message when he gets within cell tower range at Moab Bridge.

“Dave, this is Bob. I’m in Denver, on schedule. See you folks for lunch at the bridge.”

I walk up to the agent.

“Moab?”

“I’m sorry, the flight’s been cancelled, mechanical problems.”

“Are you kidding?! I’m supposed to meet some folks at a bridge in Moab in two hours.”

“Maybe you can call them and tell them you’re delayed.”

“Call them? That’s impossible. They’re on the Colorado River in rubber rafts. How about another flight? I mean are there options?”
“Yes, there’s a flight tomorrow morning. We can put you up in a hotel in Denver tonight.”

“Tomorrow! When will it get in?”

“About 11 AM.”

“Gads. By then my friends will be deep in Cataract Canyon. They’ll be unreachable. This is a disaster. I might as well fly back to Los Angeles. When’s your next flight back?”

“4:30 this afternoon.”

I leave a second message on Dave’s cell phone. “Hi Dave, looks bad. I may be heading back to LA.” Then I start thinking about alternatives. I turn to the agent.

“Could I fly to some other place and get a ground shuttle?”

“We’ve got an hour flight at 2 PM to Cortez, New Mexico and an hour flight at 3:30 PM to Grand Junction, Colorado.”

Both destinations are about two hours from Moab, Utah. It might work because we put together a back up plan for a reasonable delay. As I’m not showing up for lunch today, the group will likely stop 17 miles further downriver from Moab at a put-in called Potash.

I call Anita. “Anita, a shuttle could cost a fortune.”

“Bob, its what you want to do. Do it!”

“Ok, then I need some help. Can you look on the web for shuttles and rental cars and call me back?”

I call Dave again and leave a new message.

“Dave, I’m going go try some alternatives. I’m shooting for Potash put-in.”

“No problem Bob. We’ll camp there.”

“I should be there by 7:00 PM latest, but eat without me. I’ve got plenty of food in my pack.” I hang up. In another hour, cell phones won’t be an option. Our group will be down river. It will be eight more days before a phone message could reach them.

Anita calls back. I scribble a bunch of phone numbers all over my worthless boarding pass.

I book the Cortez flight, check rental cars and find none are available for a one-way drop off. I call the shuttle that was going to drive me from the Moab airport to the bridge.

“No problem. I can meet you in Cortez. It’ll take two hours. Then two and a half hours back from there to Potash put-in, just a little bit of dirt road at the end. Can you find some other folks who got bumped? They could share the ride and the cost of the van.”

It’s a great idea. Thirty minutes before takeoff I go to the gate.

“Hi!”

The agent recognizes me from this morning, raises her eyebrows twice, a friendly hello. I tell her about my brilliant idea of sharing the van’s cost.

“Won’t work. There was only one other passenger for Moab, and she’s already left for the hotel in Denver.”
“Ok. Plane leaving in thirty minutes?”

“I’m afraid not. The Cortez plane’s got mechanical problems. They’ll have to take up it for an empty test flight before certifying it. Maybe another hour. If the fix doesn’t work, maybe more.”

“More?!!! But I’ve hired a private shuttle and it’s already heading for Cortez. What am I going to do if the flight doesn’t go?”

She nods agreement. What’s she agreeing too?! “You’re right, buster. What ARE you going to do?”

Ah yes, the Grand Junction flight! I dash across the departure lounge to Grand Junction gate. Mid-dash I stop and call my driver’s cell phone.
“Hi Bob.” By now we’re on a first name basis. It’s like having a mobile therapist.

“Say, could you pick me up at Grand Junction instead of Cortez?”

“It’s doable, Bob, but it won’t be easy. I’ve got to drive to x, then head to y, and finally drop into z.” I’ve got the picture. The guy’s practically got to climb the Alps with ice ax, rope, and pitons to reach me, but he can do it. Maybe I should fly back to LA.

I run back to the Cortez desk. Another rising of the agent’s cute eyebrows. If I ever survive this, I’ve got to teach Anita that eyebrow trick.
The agent tells me that the plane is back on the ground and problems persist. I head back to the Grand Junction gate.

“Ok, sign me up. Grand Junction it’ll be.”

“Can do,” says the agent, “but there’s really no rush.”

“No rush?” I can feel the blood draining from my face the way the water goes down the sink at the equator.

“The Grand Junction plane has been hit by lightening. The engineers have to check out everything. That may take a while.”

Holy expletives! I dash back the Cortez desk. The agent is all smiles. “We’ve ordered new equipment.” That’s code for, “darned if we can fix the plane, so we’ll get you a new one.” “You’ll be in the air in an hour.”

My blood surges back into its normal places in my brain. I do some quick calculations. If all works, an unprecedented dangerous assumption, I could get to Potash put-in by 9:30 tonight. I call the van driver.

“Hi Bob.”
“Ok, we’re good to go at Cortez. I’ll call you just before we take off.”

“That’s great, Bob. I’m in Cortez right now.”

“Fantastic. Enjoy a coffee. Look, I’m a fair guy. You’re time is important. I plan to compensate you for your wait.”

“I’d appreciate that, Bob.”

The plane’s two 15-seat aisles are nearly full. Below, the Rockies have a thick blanket of snow, soft white with hints of orange and pink, splashes of the sunset’s last light. The running lights wink, tiny red beacons in a starry universe. I pull out my camera.

The Cortez Airport Terminal is little more than a room with a door to the tarmac and one to the sidewalk. At the there’s a guy in shorts standing next to a maroon van that says “Coyote Shuttle.” “You’re Bob, aren’t you?”

I’m gunning for sleep, but first priority is to keep the driver awake. We talk about Moab politics, the snowpack, the river, running a shuttle business in our struggling economy, and about the driver’s dysfunctional brother. The cliffs disappear in the darkness. We roll down Moab’s lit main street. People sit in cafés downing pizzas, lattes, steaks, burgers, and all the high calorie stuff that goes with a hard day of mountain biking or river running. I offer the driver a few unsalted almonds.

We cross the Moab Bridge. I look at the missed rendezvous for a second and then turn my eyes back to the road. Occasionally our headlights pick up a brown National Park sign pointing to this arch or that hiking trailhead. I can’t see a thing. A half hour later, along a deserted river-hugging road, we head down a sloping dirt ramp to water’s edge. The headlights illuminate three craft tethered to the thick invasive Tamarisk one the bank. I recognize the boats. Up shore a few feet I see our pitched tents.

I’m still counting out the money when some of the group approaches. I’m two hours beyond “at the latest.”

“Are we glad to see you. You had us worried. We thought something had happened.”

Something did, perhaps not as bad as my fellow rafters imagined, and certainly not as good as I expected. I sit in front of the tent, pull off my shoes, feel the soft sand, cool to my touch, and crawl into the tent. Rich has laid out my air mattress and sleeping bag. The Tundra is long gone, shuttled eight days downriver. I listen. No seemingly incessant loudspeakers announcing flights or cancellations of them, no white noise of airport lounge’s ambience. It’s silent enough to hear a faint riffle of water against some irregularity in the sandbank. When I open my eyes, the sun is striking palisades of orange and red sandstone.

Part II

Reckoning

For several days, we row and float down the Colorado. In one shallow canyon, we stand among tree-length petrified logs. Studies of tectonic drift and magnetic flux tell us that the original trees began their journey at the equator. We climb up steep escarpments to plateaus in which fragrant juniper and pinyon accent backdrops of sandstone towers and arches with names like the Doll House and Beehive. The sun sears, night eventually cool enough to require a light, open sleeping bag over one’s tired body. The moonlight is so bright that, except for reading, our flashlights are superfluous.

And then we arrive in Cataract Canyon at Big Drop. Big Drop I, II, and III. A 10-point rating scale particular to The Grand is used on these rapids. A rating of 1 describes, perhaps a smooth flowing river. A 10 describes adrenalin-depleting water although anything 3 or above requires caution and knowledge of safe rafting. Big Drop I, II, and III are rated class 6, 8 and 6 respectively.
Under certain circumstances Big Drops II and III are considered the most challenging rapids on the Colorado River including the Grand Canyon. We’re about to discover that this is one of those circumstances.

We make camp above the Big Drop series and walk down to scout out the rapids. We watch a couple of parties go through, watch one of the big boats flip over a formation in Big Drop II called Little Niagara, watch the boatman get tossed into the air, watch his boat end up a mile away, watch him, a tiny dot charging through a sea of standing waves, follow his boat.

Back at camp, we discuss, two separable topics, strategy and safety. Craig Miller picks up a stick and in the dry sand draws a schematic of the rapids. He places small rocks and bits of wood in the outline of shore, tongues, and wave trains to simulate critical points, alternative routes, and the boats. Others make small adjustments in the layout. Then the talk begins. We want to avoid Little Niagara and, further below, some dangerous rocky holes with descriptive names such as Satan’s Gut.

The SOAR, foreground, on a quiet stretch of the Colorado in Cataract Canyon.

Some rivers become safer, tamer, and easier to negotiate when the water level is low. Not so in Cataract. More is more dangerous, more worrisome, and more unpredictable. We’ve got reason for concern. Further down, in “The Grand,” the river flows between about 5000 and 28000 cps maximum. Glen Canyon Dam controls the flow and one can get schedules of the release, making flow predictable. But here in Cataract, there’s no such control. You get whatever the snowcap and the melt rate from the Rockies dishes out. And right now, it’s dishing out a lot. It turns out that the beautifully warm colors of the snow cap which I saw from the plane are bad news. They are produced more by reddish sandstone dust churned by unusually arid conditions. They will reduce the amount of the sun’s heat reflected back into the sky and increase the melt on the west face of the Rockies. That melt has to go somewhere. It’s headed for the Colorado, perhaps at record levels.
As a further kicker, we’ve just passed the point where the Green River enters the Colorado. The Green also is picking up snowmelt and run-off from a recent storm. We estimate that the muddy flow is close to 28,000 cps, top of scale for The Grand and nearly twice its usual flow. (Official records will later show that on the day we enter the Big Drop series, the Colorado through Cataract is running even higher, at 34,000 cps. Those records will show that within a few days after we enter Big Drop’s series, the level will rise to 42,000 cps. A week later, the river will hit more than 50,000 cps.).

So, it’s decided. The big raft with Dave and Earl will go first. It is the most stable. The four-person paddle raft with Craig as chief and Howard, Ursula, and Ed, is second most stable. It will go next. Rich and I, in the SOAR, will go last. Our boat is the least stable and has the greatest risk of flipping. The order of our boats will increase the odds that the least stable boats will have the most stable boats at the ready downstream to mount a rescue if needed.

Appetites are initially low at dinner. There’s an occasional comment, but conversation is short. Someone offers a joke. “Hey, why don’t we start off upside down? That way, when we flip, we’ll land right side up.” There’s some laughter. Someone starts talking about some of the driftwood. The conversation has no substantive point, but it seems deadly strategic to this listener and an example of how every pitches in to manage the team. It’s an attempt to keep our attention focused away from energy robbing anxiety.

We clamber towards appetite. As the dinner progresses, people eat more and more, loading up on the calories that our muscles may need tomorrow. My sleep is fitful. I wake up several times feeling tense. I’m not alone. Over breakfast we agree that last night was not a beauty rest moment, but sleep we did.

We review strategy and run final checks on the meticulously performed tie downs of gear in the boats. Then we leave the shore about 30 seconds apart. I’m all business. No more tenseness. I feel alert, vigilant, and ready to do whatever needs to be done.

We’ve agreed that the right side of the rapids offers the most safety. We’re all going to run rapids on river right if we can. Currents may push us faster and farther from optimum points than we’d anticipated from the comfortable perspective of the sandy shore. Rocks and waves may show up that are unobservable until we are in the water, or worse, until they are in our face.

Dave’s big oared raft runs Big Drop II successfully and eddies out right shore. He and Earl watch and wait. Now the four-person paddle raft heads right. The bearing looks good. It’s a go! Almost. The raft clips a rock marking the channel between Little Niagara and the shore. It’s a nasty situation. The bump puts a spin on the raft, hangs it slightly, lets it sail down into the drop at nearly 85 degrees, and on impact, it rams into standing waves effectively shove the front and side down and under the boat, flipping it. Rich and I see are focused on setting up for the approach. We assume the paddle raft got through, but break off visual contact to deal with our own challenges.

We’re in fast current, With Rich, in back, and me, in front, paddling hard. We’re right of Little Niagara. Looks good, but damn, we’ve gotten too far right. There’s a line of rocks and channels disappearing down through them. This is not where we expected to be. We don’t recognize the options. It’s either slam into rocks to the right of Little Niagara or commit to a slit between them, a slit little wider --- or perhaps not ---than our boat’s beam. If we go for the slit, does it pour off depositing us below in the river or will it dump us onto some jagged rocks? We paddle furiously, reach the slit, discover that it’s a steep, rocky fall, a wedge, and grind down it, jammed in and stopped, bow first at nearly 90 degrees. Water surges down the sides between the edges of the boat and the rock and pours into the bow. Rich, now above me, carefully climbs out onto a shoreward rock. I move myself out onto a lower rock. We keep a hand on the SOAR, but the flow of water, the friction, and how it’s jammed mean its not going anywhere. On the other hand, one misstep and either of us could be swept away.

Can we overcome the force of the water and move the SOAR out of the jam? Can we do so without tearing and sinking the boat? We’re going to need help. We can see that the four-person group is safe. They are about 30 yards down shore. They’ve managed to get themselves to the boulder-strewn shore and right and tie up the paddle raft. And Dave’s raft is next to them. It will probably take one or two more persons to get us out of this mess safely. We motion that we need two additional two persons. Dave joins the group.

We’re in no immediate danger. The important thing is to catch our breath and carefully think through options before taking action. We work out a solution. We’ll run the stern line forward and attempt to flip the SOAR out of the crack.

We check every move to make everyone is clear of getting caught in a pull line. A line around a leg or neck could be fatal. Rich and I lift at the bow, the others pull the stern down, and the SOAR flips out of the jam and floats free. When we right it, everything is in place. Careful tie-down procedures have prevented the loss of even a canteen from the paddle raft and the SOAR.

Thirty minutes later we’re off through Big Drop III. Staying right, everyone avoids Satan’s Gut. Our SOAR works great. We dive down big waves, then dig in our paddles and climb up and over them, glorious smooth wave trains. Glorious until we see a breaker wall, white, rather than smooth, ten yards or more across coming towards us at roughly three times the height of our SOAR. Nothing to dig paddles into. We approach the wall of water at about 45 degrees and flip. I look back. Rich has a hand on the upside-down SOAR. I try to join him, but the current is carrying me too fast down river, because I offer less resistance. I’m off through Big Drop III and another rapid or two below it.
I kick in safety training. “First order of business, relax.” Ok, accomplished that. Some things make me anxious. But somehow, in emergencies, I’m blessed with wiring that makes me cool and collected. I’ve seen it before. Time for a little self-talk. “Ok, Bob, you’ve relaxed. What else? Uh, keep your feet downstream so they rather thn your head hit any rocks.”

I turn and float feet first. Here come more waves, mouth closed, phooooosh, take a breath, phooosh, gasp, phooosh…. “Hmmmm, where’s Rich? I don’t see him. Nothing I can do. He’s probably ok. I’ve got to concentrate on these waves.” Phoooooooshhhhh. “Next thought? I’ve got a wet suit and accompanying boots and gloves. Not bad. I could stay in this stuff a long time…phooopsh….phooosh….phoosh, gaasssp, without hypothermia. Sort of like body surfing. Ok, I’m going to make it; Yesssss, I’m not going to die.”

I feel my body sink. No waves, no sky, just silence. I’ve been pulled down in some sort of boil or whirlpool. Still calm. “Peaceful down here. Hold your breath, Bob. You can do that a long time. Member how you used to swim at the bottom of the pool with David standing on your back like a surfer? Same thing.” Now I’m back up. Big breath. Phoooooosshhhhhh.

“Ok, what next? I’ve got this paddle.” I hear Craig’s briefing, “If you’re in the water with your paddle, use both hands to paddle to safety.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the shore, and even better, an eddy coming up, an upwards-running dead spot without waves. I lie on my back and start paddling hard. I’m getting closer. This sucker is going to work! I’m almost there. One more stroke and I’ve got it…damn, picked up by fast current at the edge and kicked out into another wave train.

I turn my head. It’s a raft! It’s Dave and Earl. They’re in big waves. Earl is going to throw me a rescue line. I see the weighted bag sail out, land perhaps 10 feet away. I move towards it. The water is too muddy. The rope is supposed to float, but even an inch under the water, I can’t find it. They sailing past, Dave pulling in an oar to miss me, a risky thing for him for he momentarily looses the control it gives. “Good throw,” I say. “I just can’t get it.”

I see a pair of eddies, left shore. They pull into the furthest one, Dave pulling hard to get out of the current. I flip on my back and use the paddle. I’m within a yard of the eddy. Now within a foot, now inches; YESSSSS, I’m in the eddy. I paddle to the steep embankment. I put my feet down, feel rocks, steady myself on one at the shore and stand up. Then I begin to carefully climb over big blocks of fractured rock, sometimes climbing, sometimes descending to find a passable route. I can see Dave and Earl. I raise my oar. They see it.

Ten minutes later I’ve reached them. “Thanks guys.” Upstream I can see Rich paddling the SOAR. Howard is in the bow. A minute later they pull in. The paddle raft follows shortly. We shift around, and once again Rich and I are back in the SOAR.

One more rapid to go, a 6 rating. We’re off in the usual order. I was in the river for perhaps a mile. But I feel fine. Rich and I briefly talk about how life vests and wet suits turn a potentially fatal situation one into one in which survival merely requires keeping cool and some basic knowledge of river flow and safety procedures.

And here’s the last rapid. Nice smooth wave trains. After this smooth water all the way to Lake Powell and the take out near Hite. We scoot down waves, dig up others…and flipped. This time we’ve both got a hold of the handles on the SOAR. A big roller hits us. Rich disappears from sight in the breaker. I can feel the water trying to tear my hand from the handle. “You’re not doing to do that to me! I’m holding on even if you rip the boat up.” The wave clears; Rich has taken a mouthful of Colorado silt. He’s joined me at my handle. We’re still in charge. All that strength training of hands and arms has paid off. We’re still in charge. We see the shore, an eddy, starting kicking and sculling with our free hands. I put my feet down. Smooth, solid sand. We’re both safe. We flip the boat over, open some waterproof day bags and have a snack.
Then off we paddle. Later in camp we agree that the high flow rates changed the class 6 rapids to 8s and the 8 to a 10. Those in the group who’ve considerable years of experience in North America’s big rapids are calling Big Drop II the most difficult rapids they’ve even negotiated. “Bigger than Lava in The Grand.” “Lava’s big, but it’s not that unpredictable, not that challenging. Nope, I can’t think of anything like Big Drop II.”

We paddle along in the 5-mile per hour current. There’s one more rapid according to the river map. But, like everything else that has not been what was predicted, that too is wrong. There are no additional rapids. Glen Canyon Dam’s backwater has swallowed the rest.
The sun feels hot again. I take off my crash helmet, dump my wide brimmed hat into the water for a little extra cooling power, and let the water run down my face and over my silt-spotted sunglasses.

“Say Rich, what are your thoughts about the SOAR?”

“It’s a good boat, Bob. Just a bit small for this kind of water.”

“Oh well, I reckon at least we’ve seen more of the Colorado than most people."

“Maybe even drunk more of it.”

“Yeh, maybe that too.”
-----------------------------
Bob Caplan
May 4-13, Cataract Canyon, Utah