CRYSTAL
CLEAR FEAR
By Noel Laflin
January 30, 2013
“We are now ready to start on our way down
the Great Unknown.”
Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869
I am still puzzled, these many years later,
as to how I ever became interested in tackling the mighty Colorado of the Grand
Canyon as my first rafting trip. All I
do know for sure is that some river itch got hold of me, and powerfully so I
might add. Nothing would do but to
scratch it with a white-knuckle, wild-water joyride down that cold, muddy river
and see it all the way through the depths of this legendary and foreboding
canyon conceived in equal parts of harsh reality, myth and dream.
It was in a moment of dumb blind faith I
suppose, some thirty years ago, that I walked into the first travel agency I
found and inquired as to how one went about doing such a thing. Within the hour I departed this enlightened
institution with documents in hand proclaiming me an officially paid member of
a Western Rivers Expeditions rafting tour. I would be departing in late August of 1982 -
destination: The Grand Canyon of the West, one of the seven natural wonders of
the world! I would be viewing it from
the bottom/up. My neck was already sore
in anticipation of the view.
Now, the first three days within the depths
of the canyon were mighty fine indeed. And
I could, without much prodding, bore both young and old alike with tall tales
of natural wonders, condors in flight, newly made friends from the likes of
Boston and Montreal, torrential monsoon rains, spectacular lightning storms, secret
coves, elfin-like waterfalls and alas, but by no means least … the unexpected pleasure
of an unplanned canyon romance thrown in for good measure. But, I won’t go there presently, although some
of these events deserve – or perhaps not - a separate telling of their own some
day. Regardless, let’s set all of that
aside for the time being instead and jump ahead to just one day of this
adventure - one memorable afternoon in particular – the running of Crystal
Rapid.
“The
walls now, are more than a mile in height – a vertical distance difficult to
appreciate.
A thousand feet of this up through crags, then steep slopes and
perpendicular cliffs rise,
one above another, to the summit.
The gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above,
with crags and angular projections on the walls.”
Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869
If one ever chose to personify the character
of a rapid, I think it would be safe to say that Crystal was one nasty looking
lady. In fact, upon first glance, she
had that look – as if someone had done her wrong long ago - and she was still
pissed off over said offence.
However, to back up just a bit, we paying
passengers all had our own first clue as to Crystal’s mood based upon sound
alone. You see, we had already survived
the likes of several heavyweight rapids just that very day and were prematurely
congratulating ourselves on having conquered some tough whitewater, which in
actuality was the color of Colorado mud.
Sure,
one of my new Bostonian friends, by the name of Ann, had been violently thrown
off of our raft, not once but twice already that day, by the brute force of
both Sockdologer and Old Man Hermit Rapid.
But hey, she lived to both tell and laugh about it once we hauled her
back into the craft at the end of each run.
However, we suddenly all grew very quiet and attentive as a new far-off sound
of angry water grew ever closer and louder. In fact, this new roar made the aforementioned
Sockdolager Rapid sound downright friendly in comparison. There appeared to be, based upon the increased
decimal ratings alone, some serious business up ahead – just around that very next
bend.
“Crystal,” our boatman, Bruce, whispered to
no one in particular. The bravado level
amongst the passengers paled considerably as we caught the lilt of both respect
and fear in his one word pronouncement.
He gradually guided our craft to the left bank of the river so that we
could tie up and check out whatever lay ahead.
We all took stock of this new deployment as we had never stopped to
scout a rapid up until this point. There would appear to be some serious shit
ahead.
The second raft tied up beside us. Soon, our ragtag group was scrambling up and
over large boulders as we followed the boatmen headed down stream. They sought some elevation for a better view
below. We finally got our own eyeful.
“Holy Jesus!” I cried. “We’re going through that?”
As the boatmen conspired amongst themselves, we passengers became more
nervous. Several stepped away toward the river in order to deal with a nervous
bladder. I longed for a cigarette, or
better yet, a way out of here without going through those infernal raging
waters below. This was truly the first
time in my life that I felt deep down, gut-wrenching fear. I wasn’t fond of the
potential coward lurking within.
The
crew eventually approached us after a time of quiet deliberation amongst
themselves.
“Crystal,”
the senior boatman began, “used to be a so-so rapid up until the
mid-sixties.” He looked out over the
roaring, churning whitecaps not far below us. “That was,” he continued, “until
a particularly horrendous amount of rain pounded this area and brought down, by
way of Crystal Creek, boulders the size of houses. Overnight, the storm changed the
configuration of this rapid from a class five to a class nine/ten rapid. I would not liked to have been the first guy
through here after that deluge, not prepared for what had changed.” He paused for thought and continued on. “Now, as you can see, there are three rather
ominous looking holes down there. We
intend to run them all. Western has
never flipped a J-Rig yet, and we don’t intend to now. But this will be a ride to remember. We are going to need a lot of weight up
front, so I want the regular daredevils to keep their places there and more to
come forward, especially on Bruce’s boat.
In fact, Ron, I want you to ride with those guys, as they need more
weight. Bruce, I want your rig to go
first. Enjoy your ride and then wait and
watch for us below. I cannot stress just
how tightly you will all need to hold on.
Get your feet deep within the webbing and hug that rubber with your legs
for all you’re worth. And keep low. Suck rubber. That water will try to tear you off. See you at the bottom.” With that he was done.
We quickly
clambered back aboard and fought over seating arrangements. No one wanted to be
up front, at least not the very first person up front. I finally settled for second, behind the aforementioned
boatman named Ron. Ann, who had flown through the air twice already, was behind
me. Art, Steve and Beth (more Bostonian
friends) sat to our left, on the middle pontoon. Cynthia, also from Boston and two Englishmen sat
on the right pontoon. Bruce and his
girlfriend, Pam, were busy in the back literally lashing down the steadfast
elderly sisters, Ruth and Francis, who sat atop the back coolers. We were finally set.
As we made our approach, Bruce began to shout
last minute instructions above the ever-increasing roar of Crystal.
“Remember, there will be three holes,” he bellowed, straining to be
heard. “When we crest that first wave,
we will be going straight down. The next
wave will drop us into a deeper hole.
However,” and he paused here for emphasis, “watch out for the last hole,
as it will appear to have no bottom!
That is the nastiest one of all.”
We heard no more. The roar was deafening. We were making our entry, close to the left
side.
Now, to this day, I can’t rightly begin to
describe the force of this water. Nor
can I accurately calculate just how high the waves were. All I do know for sure is that as we crested
the top of the first massive wave, I could barely hear Bruce’s voice behind us
shouting, “First hole!” Up and over we
went into this muddy, white-capped abyss.
It took all my strength to keep from being sucked from the raft by the force
of the water. But up we rose from that
hole, only to see an even bigger wave in front of us. Up, up, up we climbed again, cresting and
falling straight down once more. “Oh,
God, oh, God, oh, God!” I cried, feeling the water ripping at my hands and
feet. I had my head crushed into the
back of Ron’s life jacket by now. I felt
Ann grab me by the waist as she lost her grip momentarily on the ropes. I thought we would both fly away. And then wave number three rose up to greet
us.
Sweet Jesus! This one was truly
colossal. We climbed until I was quite
sure that we would do a back flip. The
nine of us up front looked like we were hugging a rubber totem pole at this
point. And then, over we crested once
more and looked straight down into the gut of hole number three. It truly had no bottom. All I remember, at this venture of the ride,
was just how dark everything appeared to be - mud dark, to be exact. Additionally, there was this awesome pulling
force once more. It almost felt like a
vice grip, trying to rip me from the boat.
I could see nothing, as gritty water filled my eyes. After what seemed to be an eternity, we
blasted to the surface, like a giant blue whale coming up for air. My eyes cleared and I hooted for joy. I was alive!
But something was missing in front of me. It turned out to be Ron.
“Holy
Smokes,” I cried and jumped shakily to my feet, struggling to keep my balance
on the still rocky ride. “Kill the
motor, Bruce!” I hollered and pulled my hand across my throat trying to
indicate my fear. Bruce understood
immediately and stopped the engine and pulled the blades out of the water.
“Ron’s
gone!” I shouted. Bruce came bounding
between Ruth and Francis, leaping over gear and front-end daredevils. “He’s gone,” I repeated lamely looking over
the front edge of the boat. About that
time, Bruce and I both spotted fingers gripping the web from under the raised
pontoons; they were Ron’s fingers to be exact and fortunately Ron was still
attached to them as well. Suddenly a
head came bursting to the surface, which, first blasted out a great mouthful of
muddy water and then inhaled deeply.
Yep, it was Ron, all right. Three
of us flipped him back on board the boat.
He had a crazed look in his eyes.
“You
OK, buddy?” Bruce was asking him, pounding him on the back.
“I
think I just saw the face of God,” Ron finally gasped. “Whoa!
What a ride. Let’s do that
again!”
Bruce
jumped back to the controls and brought the boat about in the eddy below. We watched from the relative safety of our
eddy as the next raft took the plunge and gyrate through maneuvers similar to
our own. I was glad not to be in their
shoes. I think I found God myself down there.
Either that, or it was the devil himself in hole number three. Gratefully, neither chose not to keep me there.
With
that, we ran the rest of the gem series, including Ruby and Diamond and a few
less memorable rapids before calling it a day.
By the time we made camp, we were one hyped-up group. It was a night of celebration, as the
Bostonians and I claimed a cozy, flat, sandy lookout high above the river. Within short order we were imbibing in some
of Mother Nature’s finest weed, pounding down ice cold beer and taking
Polaroid’s of ourselves by the light of a very full moon. We all wore shades in the last group shot,
howling at the bright light cresting the rim above. We were a delirious crowd, the Bostonians and
I, stoned beyond belief as we told and retold the running of Crystal - and having the damn good fortune of having lived through it. It was a night to remember – some of which I actually do.
As
it turned out to be one of the Canadian’s fiftieth birthday, the crew had baked
a large chocolate-marble cake in a Dutch oven and set it aglow with fifty
wooden matches. As everyone was now off
eating desert and wishing the man many happy returns, I happened to stumble
upon a quiet stretch of the beach. It
was here that I overheard Bruce asking Ron, just what he was thinking while
down in the big hole on Crystal hanging on to the tip of the raft by his very
fingertips.
Ron
looked around, not wanting to be in earshot of passengers. Failing to see me or
not caring if I did hear, he reminded Bruce of how he had seen drift wood and
large ponderosa trees, brought down from the rim in heavy storms and getting trapped
in a hole like Crystal … and never being spit out. “I had visions of that,” he said. I believe,
“scared shitless” was the phrase by which he ended his conversation with
Bruce.
I
wandered off, with my slice of cake in hand, back to the private party on the
cliff above.
Ron’s last pronouncement pretty well summed
it up for me too. Visions of being stuck
in a watery, churning cruncher like Crystal, forever-and-ever, tried to invade
upon my good time. I got back to my
friends as quickly as I could. There
were some dreams that I would not allow that night. Instead, I donned a pair of sunglasses,
downed another beer and howled at the full moon with renewed vigor.
