Well, we survived Powell’s Falls. At the time, I remember thinking that the adrenaline rush that I experienced could not be topped. Today, 25 years later, I still believe it is at the apex of incredible experiences that now define my life, and that includes a few high-speed (over 100MPH) police car chases through the streets of New York City that make the famous “French Connection” chase scene seem like a leisurely ride through the country.
The end of day six finds us in the bottom of the canyon. We enjoy a comfortable night’s lodging and are told that day seven starts early with breakfast. Our gear would be leaving before us and would be at the hotel at the rim of the canyon. We needed to fill our canteens and head over to the trailhead. We were instructed to pace ourselves (as the weather was warm) and that water would be accessible at oases along the way.
(The guides amazingly continue the water journey with their equipment for four more days to a landing place where the rafts can be trucked back to Flagstaff.)
I remember that morning as clear as if it were yesterday! It was 75 degrees as we finished breakfast and headed to the trailhead. I remember we stopped, I looked up, I looked at Don and Bob and I remember saying ‘Holy Shit”! In a flashpoint right out of the “Treasure of the Sierra Madres”, I suddenly realized why we needed burros. I looked at Don and said, “Don are you ffffing kidding me?”
The trail, a rocky footpath is a modest 2 feet wide at it’s beginning. I remember thinking to myself, “my God it’s 1985 there has to be a better way.” We began our ascent on the canyon with me shaking my head, every step or so, it seemed like I turned and looked at Don and cursed him. When I wasn’t cursing him, I was planning his demise.
It was hot getting hotter. The trail zigzags back and forth across the mountain in annoying fashion. I remember thinking “this is ridiculous why didn’t they just cut this trail straight up?” Back and forth, forth and back! Hour 2 it was at least 90 degrees. I was sweating like a pig as I finished the water in my canteen. I turned to Don and muttered something about “where the fffck is the watering hole?” He answered, but I don’t remember it being intelligible. It was at this point that I remember saying to Don “I HOPE YOU GET FFFFING HEMORRHOIDS!”*** I don’t remember what really predicated that thought and those words, but I remember them rolling off the cotton balls on my tongue as clearly as if it were yesterday. On and upwards we climbed. My mouth was dry as the sand beneath my feet. Finally, at about hour 3 we hit a watering hole. Nothing could possibly have tasted sweeter at that point (and yet I remember the taste of that ever-present southwest sulfur reverberating on my palate). We splashed and rested in the water. There were no shade trees so we found some solace on the darkside of one of the larger boulders. It was about 95 by then! After six days on the water and being exposed to all that sun I did not think it possible to burn anymore then I had already, but there, in the desert, is always that next degree of pinkish hue that extends the spectrum. Upward we pushed, by hour 5 we were out of water again and Don was looking at me like I was a juicy pork-chop! I am sure the temperature was hovering around 100. Finally, a watering hole in the distance, I was so overheated I ran to the far end and jumped in! As I raised my submerged head and cupped the water to my lips I heard the frantic high pitched scream of a woman (or so I thought, it was just Don) “DON”T DRINK THE WATER!” I looked at Don. From his end of the pool he reached into the water and pulled out a signpost that had been pushed over into the water. The sign had words to the effect of “DO NOT DRINK THE WATER” some kind of dangerous bacteria existed and ……. blah blah blah!
OMG! What had just happened? Did Don just save my life? Is that what really happened? Those four words (DON’T DRINK THE WATER) are words that I have had to hear (ad nauseum) every year, every hunting season, at every campfire, every family-get-together and every chance that my buddy Donald has had to tell that story. For years I was in denial, for years I would rationalize that I probably would have had a case of really bad diarrhea and that everything would have turned out alright anyway! It wasn’t till a few years ago that I was able to come to terms with the reality that under the circumstances, maybe, just maybe Donald had a positive influence on my life! That’s it, ha ha!
Well, the trip did not end at that watering hole. We made it to the next oasis. It was about hour seven when we heard noise and voices approaching us from above. There ahead, were several touristy looking people with straw hats on donkeys coming down the canyon trail. Apparently, the hotel above has these donkey excursions to the bottom of the canyon to satiate the tourists who had no need for a white water adventure. It was at this point that we realized that we would literally have to hug the canyon wall in order for the donkeys to squeeze bye. I will never forget that feeling of being crushed against the jagged rocks as the sweaty sure-footed animals squeezed on bye! Finally after 9 ½ hours we reached the rim. I still remember those last few curse laden steps onto flat ground above the canyon. It had made it up to 107 degrees that day in the canyon. I had a mild case of sunstroke, a crack in my lip the size of the canyon and a head full of incredible memories. I remember thinking ‘we didn’t need those stinkin badges’, but we sure needed those stinkin burros!
***Bye the way, on March 15th, 2010 my dear friend Donald had a surgical procedure on the largest hemorrhoid in Long Island medical history!
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