Food Feature: Run, river, run!

“A life can be guided by many things. That which is fleeting and artificial, or that which is eternal and natural.” This is the kind of graffiti one finds on bathroom walls in the Grand Canyon.

Below that is another piece of graffiti: “Exercise is the poor man’s liposuction.”

My dad, my brother-in-law, David, and I knew it. We’d just completed a 12-and-a-half mile hike in 115-degree heat from the canyon’s South Rim to its base on the Colorado River. Our legs were wobbly, our tummies were empty and our shoes were full of dirt. We sweated off about 6 pounds each on the grueling trip down. We were there for an eight-day dory trip on the Colorado River. Dories are small, wooden oar-powered boats, like those used by Maj. John Wesley Powell on the first exploration of the canyon in 1869.

The passengers we met had been on the river for six days. They had the appearance (and aroma) of a band of castaways — disheveled, unkempt and sweaty. They blinked their eyes at the suspension bridge that hung overhead as if civilization was a foreign concept to them. We were taking the places of three who had only signed on for the first leg of the trip.

A guide gave a safety briefing before we embarked. “If you fall out of the boat, keep your feet downstream so you don’t smash your head on a rock,” she said. “When we hit deep rapids, make sure you sway opposite the direction of the current to prevent puncturing the bottom of the boat. If the boat tips over, get back on top and try to rock it back around — and do it quickly so you don’t get pulled underwater.”

Within minutes we’re shooting through a Class V rapid. David and I were up front where each blast of water was greeted with screams of delight. The water, released from the Bryce Canyon Dam located 73 miles up river, flows from the bottom of Lake Powell at a chilling 48 degrees. It’s too cold to jump in to escape the heat, but it makes a great coolant to dip hats and lifejackets in.

With each rush through the rapids, our laps were filled with water. We bailed it out as quickly as we could with cut-off detergent bottles, but often couldn’t finish the job before we were hit with another violent, icy blast. Exhilaration!

There were 23 people on our trip, 15 passengers, four boat guides, two cooks and two porters. Each day, the captains had us switch boats to develop a sense of camaraderie. This made for interesting conversations on the lazy stretches of river where the rapids are few. Politics, religion, music and ... geology were discussed in civil and enlightened tones.

Nighttime came early. The canyon walls cast shadows that fell long across the bedrolls and sleeping bags scattered among the soft patches of sand on the beach. It was too hot to sleep in a tent so we slept close to the river where cool breezes blew off the water. David, my dad and I put our bedrolls next to each other so we could point out the shooting stars that flew across the sky with surprising regularity, looking like flaming rodents jumping from one wall to the other.

Each morning the first item of business was a trip to “the unit.” All waste has to be removed from the canyon, and that includes the most unpleasant variety. The task was accomplished with a large, easily sealed World War II ammo can with a plastic toilet seat. After a visit, you simply would sprinkle disinfecting powder over your contribution to keep the smell to a minimum. The crew was thoughtful enough to put the unit in the most scenic place at each location. That way, when nature calls, you have her best view.

Our days usually consisted of two three-hour shifts of boating, which were broken up with hikes to Native American ruins, cascading waterfalls and natural pools for swimming. The hikes were exciting, often snaking along razorback trails with drop-offs in excess of 800 feet.

The Grand Canyon is too big to be contained by words or photographs. Its sheer size and beauty gave us an acute sense of our wonderful cosmic insignificance. Our tiny boat was but a speck in comparison to the imposing stone walls that jut up some 3,000 feet to a sky we can barely see. As we slowly drifted past these walls, our boatmen told the history of the canyon. They told how the Earth when it was young and angry tore the ground apart, turning mountains on end. A record of this rage can be seen in the sedimentary levels and volcanic flow in the exposed walls and we were amazed that such beauty could come from such tremendous acts of violence.

On our last day in the Canyon, our boatman told us that even today the canyon is in a state of change. “See that runoff up there?” he said, pointing to the rim of the canyon. “See how the rock’s color is different up on the top of the wall? That’s because of erosion. Eventually these walls will just erode away.”

He was quiet for a moment, sensing our sadness, our morbid amazement that something so eternal and majestic could wither away. “Oh ... don’t worry,” he reassured us, “It won’t happen for another billion years.”??