Home Again

I returned home from rafting refreshed, strong, and ready to take on the world.

That lasted for about ten minutes, before I remembered that the world isn't real concerned with what I think. Why had I needed that (pricey) jolt of perspective? Oh yeah, now I remember. I wavered.

Then I got this in my e-mail from Tricycle's Daily Dharma, and I perked up for a bit. At least for another ten minutes.

Those Fireworks in Your Head? Not a Problem

Somewhere in this process, you will come face to face with the sudden and shocking realization that you are completely crazy. Your mind is a shrieking, gibbering madhouse on wheels barreling pell-mell down the hill, utterly out of control and hopeless. No problem. You are not crazier than you were yesterday. It has always been this way, and you just never noticed. You also are no crazier than anybody else around you. The real difference is that you have confronted the situation; they have not. So they still feel relatively comfortable. That does not mean that they are better off. Ignorance may be bliss, but it does not lead to Liberation. So don’t let this realization unsettle you. It is a milestone actually, a sign of real progress. The very fact that you have looked at the problem straight in the eye means that you are on your way up and out of it.

Day Six: Rafting the Grand Canyon

"COFFEE!"

Elk yelled the morning wake-up call across the camp. I trundled down to get my coffee, dragging along my luggage to load onto the raft for the last mile's float downstream to Whitmore Wash. We'd fly out four people at a time on a small helicopter, being lifted up to Bar 10 Ranch on the rim where hot showers and cold drinks awaited us before our flight back to Vegas.

My shoes were broken. My clothes were filthy. I had an itchy rash on the back of both arms, my heels were cracking, my shins were scratched with sand where I'd rubbed on gritty sunscreen, and my hair felt like straw. I'd broken the zipper on my duffel bag and my face was taut, the skin flaking off in small patches. Yesterday, I'd been cold in the rapids and actually thought "ENOUGH."

But I felt confident and strong, barely thinking about the problems at home that had sent me scrambling for a quick perspective fix. For the moment, my soul was healed.

Day Five: Rafting the Grand Canyon

I have to admit, I was getting a little tired of being doused with cold water. I'd started to look forward to getting back to Vegas tomorrow and having a long, hot shower. My improvised showers—dumping mugs of Colorado River water over my head after soaping up (with biodegradable soap, of course)—were producing somewhat gritty results.

But still, lazing around the raft listening to the symphony of the engine mixed with buzzing cicadas was a marvelous privilege.

Today I was on Erika's raft. Which seemed fine until I heard that Elk had given every passenger on his raft a manicure during a slow hour.

We pulled up at a slot canyon after lunch for swimming and shade. One passenger had brought her watercolors, and the day turned into a festival of face-painting and kid-art. One kid painted a picture of Elk driving his raft—a big, blue raft captained by a man in a green sarong and a bandana. Looks silly but keep the sun off.

Then, it was time for Lava, the most challenging rapid in the entire run, named Lava because this part of the canyon is covered in dry, black, ancient lava.

I moved two seats back for Lava. Enough! I'd been swearing at walls of water today. In front of children. Lava was mind-blowing, but I think I was too tired to be threatened by the rapid this time.

Our last night on the river included steaks, guitar music, and even a tango.

"August 25, 1869 — Great Quantities of lava are seen on either side; and then we come to an abrupt cataract. Just over the fall a cinder cone, or extinct volcano, stands on the very brink of the canyon. What a conflict of water and fire there must have been here! -Powell Report."

Day Four: Rafting the Grand Canyon

Something was missing when I awoke on the morning of Day Four, on my cot, perched behind a tree above Crystal Rapid.

The pressure. The pressure in my head was missing. The accumulated weight of work stress, undeniable rejection, guilt over lack of progress on projects, and of course the burden of uncertainty over direction and traditional life anchors—all of this combines to shred my confidence, drag me down, steal my enthusiasm, and rob me of my ability to laugh or improvise. It's almost a living, nagging being in my head. A rock that weighs me down.

Unless it's not. And today, four days into exile, the pressure had vanished somewhere into the night.

Delighted, I just about leapt out of bed to greet the day. This untethered feeling is marvelous but elusive. I wanted to enjoy it while I could.

I took the front seat on purpose this time, hanging on tightly as we navigated today's biggie—Crystal Rapid. Later, I moved to the driver's seat in the back, where I almost slid off while holding the video camera. Elk started towards me as I slipped from the chair onto a metal box. But he was driving the boat too. From my peripheral vision, I thought I could see an almost-imperceptible calculation going on in his head. "Can I grab this tourist while maintaining the safety of 13 others and this raft?" I slowed my own descent and he kept driving.

Anyway, I would hate to be tossed out into a big rapid, but this was a little one. I've been thrown into worse on the Nile and the Zambezi, and have learned that holding my breath while not panicking results in being spit out below the rapids, the lifejacket keeping me afloat.

The video camera wouldn't have done so well, though, so I'm glad I didn't get to intimately know the Colorado.

We passed Elk's "nemesis," Bedrock Rapid, which involved a massive, weighty boulder, sharp 90-degree turns, and gliding over an underwater rock with the engine pulled up. At one point, the other raft lost an engine, but Erika quickly changed it.

We stopped in mid-afternoon and hiked to a waterfall.

"You've got a flat," announced the 12-year-old's mother. I looked down at my eight-year-old Teva sandals, scored free from Teva at the start of MariesWorldTour.com.


"Crap." A teensy rock had lodged into the sole, letting in sand. Now the sole had split completely. A metaphor for my own rock, I thought, my own soul's nemesis.

"That can be repaired," announced Elk.

Me too, I thought.

"Not glue. Glue doesn't hold. Zip-strips. I'll show you later."

True to his word, after dinner, before the guitars came out, he punched a hole in the toe and threaded a zip-strip through the sole.

Which was marvelous.

Until the next day, when the other shoe went. I'm trying not to read anything into this.

Day Three: Rafting the Grand Canyon, Part Two

Yesterday, we'd gotten plenty wet in a fun, though unthreatening ten-mile series of rapids called the "Roaring Twenties."

Today's whitewater, however, seemed a great deal more threatening. We were going to hit our first biggie, Hance. Tomorrow's challenge was Crystal, while the biggest, wildest rapid of all—Lava—awaited us on Day Five.

We glided through the gorge, steep canyon walls rising up to our left and right. The red, yellow, and sienna colors were somehow richer than they had been, though in a few days, the walls would turn black as we approached the volcanic section of the canyon.

No way out but through it, I thought, silently reciting the mantra I had recently adopted when considering my apprehension about reassimilation into normal society, my interactions with people that were more than temporary for once.


A mile above us was the South Rim, with Grand Canyon Village and thousands of happy tourists clicking away their camera. They'd be psyching themselves up for a quick hike below the rim or maybe they were riding buses from viewpoint to viewpoint. They couldn't see us down here below the steep walls.

Then, at Mile 77, we were at Hance. A 30-foot drop over a half-mile of boulders. We scouted one rapid this morning. Was it Hance? I don't remember. So many rapids scared the hell out of me that I've forgotten which one was which.

The group was silent as the rafts glided through the smooth water just before the rapid.

"Find your handholds," said Elk, from the motor at the back of the raft. He was perched high above the raft, scouting ahead with a foot on a cooler and another on a metal rim.

"I'm scared," I announced flatly to him, across the group.

"Wise beyond her years," quipped the 16-year-old girl's father.

"Oh, Miss World Traveler is scared." Elk wasn't too fussed about one of the canyon's toughest rapids.

"This isn't the same as getting on the bus in Kenya," I shouted back, just before we descended into the maelstrom.

I faced forward just in time to get bludgeoned by a mega-wall of water.

"Bleh!" I had a second to check my sunglasses and hat before we dipped down and got doused again.

Then the raft bucked and flew, up and down like a roller coaster, before the Colorado spit us out below the rocks.

We were all laughing and howling.

It was fun.

The ride continued throughout the day, with a stop for lunch and water below Phantom Ranch (that's where tourists hike or ride down on mules to stay overnight at the bottom of the canyon). We glided under the old pedestrian footbridge and then under the new one.

"Why are there two?"

"They spent a lot of money to build the new one, but the mules wouldn't go over it, because they can see through it to the river. They'll only cross the old one."

In the afternoon, or maybe it was the morning, we approached a technically challenging rapid. I didn't keep good notes, I'm afraid. Amanda had reminded me to get waterproof writing materials for this trip, but I hadn't had time. I seemed to always be digging around in my dry bag for something—camera, video camera, sunscreen, lip balm—and what I really needed was waterproof everything that I could just keep out and clipped onto a strap.

As we approached the rapid-that-shall-remain-anonymous-due-to-my-lack-of-notekeeping, I realized that Elk and I spoke different languages, though we were the same age and had not-entirely-different backgrounds.

He explained that we had to make a choice at the upcoming rapid.

"Do you wanna go to the side where it has a drop-and-roll, or do this thread-the-needle thing where there's a sick feeling like you're gonna die?"

What came over me? Who knows?

"DIE!" I yelled down the raft. No one argued. A few people nodded.

"If we don't mush through it, it's gonna be a rocker."

What the hell does that mean, I thought, just as we dove into the madness.

Day Three: Rafting the Grand Canyon, Part One

I collected my now-dry clothes from the branches I had stuck them on the night before. I usually carry a few clothespins in my pack when I travel, but because I was going with an outfitter instead of on my own, I hadn't thrown together the same kit that I usually take.

But were I to go back to the Grand Canyon for more rafting—which I won't because I already have no idea how I'm going to pay for this last-minute, soul-recovering trip when the Mastercard bill shows up*—I'd take clothespins. That way I wouldn't have to worry about the wind blowing away my clothing.

I packed my sheet, pillow, and tarp back into the dry bag. My sleeping bag sat unused at the bottom of the pack. I dismantled my cot and folded it up into its sling carrying case. I smeared sunscreen over my feet, hands, shins, neck, and forearms, then pulled on my rain gear over my bathing suit.

The rain gear, which the outfitter rightly insisted we bring along, had been on sale. I had searched a few places first—REI, Paragon Sporting Goods—but plastic outfits were too pricey for one-time use. And given that I'd never needed raingear before in my life (umbrellas work fine in most cases), I didn't want to spend a lot on something I'd never use again. I'd found the sale gear online and bought that. The catch? It was purple.

"It's Barney!" One of the dads on the trip had exclaimed yesterday, when everyone wore their raingear in the morning, having learned the previous day that the Colorado water is freezing cold.

So much for soul-recovering. I feel so much better now.

I pulled on my hat, sunglasses, and Tevas and headed to the raft. My capris and long-sleeved shirt were at the bottom of my daypack. I'd change into them by lunchtime, when the sun had warmed the day up.

We motored downriver out of Science Camp, heading towards the Gorge, the section of the Grand Canyon that everyone who goes to the South Rim views. Today's journey would send us through some of the biggest rapids and some of the most spectacular scenery.

Less than an hour downriver, Elk pulled over.

"Let's check on this hiker."

A shirtless man lay in the shade under a tree, at the end of a long trail. His backpack was beside him.

"You okay?"

"Sure. You guys seen an AzRa raft?" (I think it was Azra, but maybe it was another outfitter. Don't hold me to this.)

"They'll be here in less than an hour."

The hiker was the new guide for a different group we'd seen yesterday. One of their guides had been taken out from the Little Colorado by helicopter med-evac.

"What was wrong with him?" I'd asked our trip leader.

"His knee had swollen up. It's probably nothing, but they don't take any chances because of the new super-bug that's been virulent. It gets in through open sores. Like these." He'd motioned to his cracked heels, something that was happening to my heels too.

Superbug? Like MRSA?

"We're all colonized," one of the doctors on our trip (a passenger) waved off my surprised concern.

"And it's going to get worse," said the other doctor.

"What can I do to not be colonized?"

"There are various anti-bacterial washes, but no one is sure if they work."

We left the hiker and passed under the Desert View Watchtower on the South Rim. It's a rustic observation tower designer by architect Mary Jane Colter in 1932. My mother and I visited it on our first Grand Canyon trip in the late 80s or early 90s. I no longer remember the year, but Marc and David will, because they'd just moved from New York to Hollywood. I was headed cross-country by Greyhound to visit them. Mom flew into Phoenix and met me.

"Just so you know, there's a kid up there who put a quarter into the binoculars and he's watching us right now."

I waved.

And we motored on. Today was a huge day—incredible gorge scenery, constant rapids, and some of the big 'uns.


*Cost of a Grand Canyon rafting trip? A few thousand dollars. Cost of a quick fix to a battered ego? Priceless.

Time Out

I'm taking a semi-holiday from blogging today.

But first, this just in:

Take a look at this fantastic review of Dik-Dik by Bob Garlitz, a professor in New Hampshire. I love it.

He also posted his review on Amazon and Goodreads, where I hope it will offset all those comments about how "boring" I must be. (Gee, thanks, total strangers!)

Day Two: Rafting the Grand Canyon

Rumor had it that the strong coffee in the bucket was Peet's Coffee.

I put the strainer on top of my official cup (we each got one for the duration of the trip), and ladled in some Peet's for a nice super-charge.

I'm not sure exactly how the math works, but it seems to me that stronger coffee = fuller porta-potty, which must on some level be deliberate. The staff had asked us to try to get out digestive systems to work in the morning and night, when the camp toilet was set up.

They carried a different toilet for each day. The toilets had hardcore lids for when they were not in use, but the toilet seat moved from toilet to toilet each day. One day, Chelsea had a line of six kids and couldn't get the toilet open.

"I nearly had a riot on my hands," she said.

On Day Two, we broke camp and chugged downriver.

Today's sidetrip was to a marvelous waterslide on the Little Colorado. The smaller river was a rich turquoise. We all hiked to a spot which was full of rafters from other outfitters. Everyone was doing the same thing. Buckling their life jackets around their bottoms like diapers, leaping into the Little Colorado, and sliding down to the pool below.

It was marvelous, but I looked ridiculous in my diaper. I looked more ridiculous than the others, I think, because I'd stripped down to my bathing suit first, so it looked like I had nothing on underneath my life jacket. Everyone else was wearing their street clothes, but I didn't want to abuse them more than I already was.

I did not take any photos of me in my orange, padded diaper.

Day One: Rafting the Grand Canyon, Part 2

Our guide motioned at a tall, thin rock formation that towered above the banks of the Colorado River.

"This campsite is called Indian Dick," he announced. "Or it used to be. I've seen the old guidebooks. Now it's officially called Mile 23."

"Navajo Richard," added his helper, all smiles and brightness.

"Now, duffel line!"

And with that, all the passengers lined up in front of the rafts. As each duffel (in a dry bag) came off the rafts, it was passed to the campsite.

I took my bag, labelled B21, and trundled uphill. There wasn't much shelter, but I wanted some measure of privacy. We were camping tent-free, with fold-up cots that kept us off the ground and away from bugs and scorpions.

"What if it rains?" I'd asked.

"We just get wet and laugh about it," said Erika. That was the point of the trip, right? To get wet?

Anyway, it almost never rains there. That's why we have to pack everything out, including sewage. The lack of rain means it would just sit in the ground for years. About 22,000 raft the Grand Canyon each year. I'm not sure how many pounds or tons of poop that would equal, but I can see why the National Park Service wouldn't want to leave that shit lying around.

We'd rafted along for several hours, and I'd been introduced to the concept of taking one for the team as I'd been on point. The 12-year-old girl sitting behind me kept thanking me for blocking her from the onslaught of whitewater. She had a snarky sense of humor for such a young girl.

We'd hiked up to a scenic pool in mid-day, and there Erika had offered us salty snacks. I hadn't eaten many, and now, at dinner time, had a terrible dehydration headache. I promised myself to eat and drink more tomorrow, then washed in the river and went to lie down for just a minute on my cot.

When I awoke, it was the middle of the night. The sky was bright with millions of stars. The moon lit the landscape up beautifully. I peeled off my clothes, put on my "Alice Springs" tank top, pulled the sheet over me, and stared at the stars.

My headache was gone.

Day One, Rafting the Grand Canyon

A shuttle bus took me and 20 or so other people to a little airport on the outskirts of Vegas.

A little airport with a gift shop. Coffee! Water bottle! Deodorant! Oh happy day.

My thumbs worked overtime on my phone's tiny keyboard, answering e-mails and prepping my Kuwait, Cairo, and NYC contacts for my absence.

Our group boarded two small puddle jumpers. I sent my last text—a personal one, in retrospect, a fine exhibit of my individual manias—from the runway and shut down the phone.

An hour later, we disembarked into blinding sun on a tiny runway in a dusty, familiar-looking town. I'd been here, but my memories of it were clouded, vague. When? Was it when the Other Marie and I had circled the West in a rented compact, many years ago? No. It was in 2002. I'd been through Marble Canyon with Turbo during his cross-country trip in Henry the Ford Taurus.

My phone didn't work here. Just as well. I was going to have no internet or cell for a week. This was a good time to start, though it seems a shame it hadn't started an hour earlier when I was sending stupid texts.

A 42-year-old man named Elk—one of those classic legend types who'd give Indiana Jones a run for his money, exactly the Turbo/Herr Marlboro kind of guy I used to go for before I got so burned that I swore them off and started dating the polar opposite (different formula, same results though, crap, doesn't that mean it's me?)—introduced himself as the trip leader. His second was Erika, and the helpers were Chelsea and Lindsay.

Each of 27 or 28 passengers packed his or her duffel into a dry bag. At the bottom of each dry bag was a sleeping bag, sheet, inflatable (Thermarest-style) pillow, and tarp. We'd each get a cot to camp on. No tents.

Fine, that means no tent-sharing. I hate sharing a tent with strangers. We'd sleep under the stars.

We also each got a waterproof day bag. This would hold rain gear (for the rapids), cameras, water bottles, lip balm, and sunscreen.

I dropped my luggage into the blue dry bags, put on my hat, sunscreen, and Bolle sunglasses (purchased in Darwin in February of 2001), slipped on my Teva sandals (scored from Teva for MariesWorldTour in 2001) and looked around. Now what?

"The gas station doesn't sell beer until ten. So we wait."

We waited, finally getting to the boat launch just after ten.

We were split onto two large motorized rafts. Had I wanted to go down the Colorado on a motorized raft? Not really. I'd wanted an oar-powered small one. But this trip had been available when I needed a shake-up.

And shake me up it did. I sat in the front, and right after launching, we started getting wet. I sat next to a 12-year-old girl and a 16-year-old girl, and I was point person to protect them from the water.

SPLASH. I got soaked immediately at Paria Riffle. The water was freezing. The sun was hot. Cold, hot, cold, hot. What genius part of me hadn't realized that sitting on the front was taking point? I wasn't a thrill-seeker. I am lazy and sluggish! Why hadn't I sat in the back?

The rafts motored on, under the only highway bridge across the canyon, the road to Marble Canyon. Henry the Ford would have crossed that en route from the Grand Canyon to Bryce. We stopped for sandwiches, then drifted downriver.