Royal Gorge
Arkansas River, Colorado. First day cloudless, ninety degrees, glistening blue river, occasional stretches of rippling rapids, all short-lived, a few ledges, suck-holes. We learn about the others::::friends who have recently graduated drug rehab together::::and about our two guides::::mellow types. We get sunburned We're all exhausted and hang out instead of making camp, then scramble to set up our tents when we realize its looking more and more like rain. Soggy dinner. Cold wet evening spent huddling in Gus's World War II issue 6-man canvas tent, which, as he explains it, his dog must have pissed on. We play "Mexican" until the beer runs out, then each of us tells a scary story, Tv punctuating his suspenseful moments with loud farts::::after his third we all rush out to escape nearly pulling the tent down::::the rain has stopped, the sky is perfectly clear again::::we howl at the full moon. In the morning the river is rumbling, swollen::::we drive twenty miles south-west to the entrance of the Royal Gorge. The guides wander off to discuss making an attempt::::only a few of us have ever rafted before, and these are the highest rated rapids in Colorado after a heavy rain. The clouds begin gathering; the breeze confuses until wind; it drizzles; we wait; the drizzle increases to rain. A group decision is made: Go for it. The river pulls us along::::we practice paddling to commands::::by the end of the second mile we're pulling ourselves along inside of the river::::in control. A few rushes, negotiations, adjustments::::we deliberately bounce off a rock just to experience the shock and to practice escape. The canyon constricts until it's simply a deep crack in the Earth. Our guide points out the rusting remnants of a railroad::::a jutting bend with an eroded tunnel where two hundred Chinese slaves perished in a blasting accident::::a long wide strip where a thousand more Chinese were massacred following a dispute with the company over a handful of rice. The river darkens::::we're swallowed whole::::a thousand feet below the crust of the Earth::::the sky a skinny gray rag floating far far above us. We land on a tiny beach. We get out, stretch, jog along a winding footpath to a rock ledge which overlooks a ledge where the river drops ten feet::::a waterfall more than a rapid. We stand there in silent amazement. My raftmates are handed throw-ropes and station themselves around the rapid We wish the other crew good luck. They head into the ledge softly::::a mistake::::get pulled toward a group of rocks, bounce, then suddenly free-fell, straight down, landing with a thud, everyone starts screaming "Paddle! Paddle!'' They manage to pull themselves out of the suck-hole, then paddle over to a rocky cove below us::::hooting and hollering echoing through the canyon. That crew hikes up and takes our positions. We march along the path to our raft, climb aboard, and push off. We locate the pulse, paddle full power straight into the maw of the beast::::as if paddling off the face of the Earth. Fall::::Smack! The raft immediately jerks backwards, aft gets stuck under the fall, we dig deep, but we're held, we're being held, stroke faster, furiously, the guide screaming his head off::::suddenly we break free, steer into the cove. The remaining rapids are cake::::a few stretching out a hundred yards or more, a few narrow twisting turns, several drops, spins, suck-holes, but all of it easily navigated::::we listen to the river.
©2006 wfairbrother
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