Rim-to-River Trek

OVER THE ROCKS

RIDER CANYON poses a challenge in reaching the Colorado's HOUSE ROCK RAPIDS Text by KATHLEEN BRYANT Photographs by LARRY LINDAHL

DOWN TO THE RIVER

We park our four-wheel drive on a knoll that sweeps down to the edge of Rider Canyon in far northern Arizona, its depths shadowy in the lateafternoon light. We hope to set up camp here and hike into the canyon in the morning.

A narrow break in the Kaibab limestone is the only hint at the route. Massive boulders lie in a jumble down a dizzying descent; then the trail disappears below a gargantuan chockstone. The thought of wriggling underneath tons of rock makes my stomach clench.

This treacherous passage of tumbled stone marks just the beginning of nearly 3 miles of steep talus slope, cliffs, pourovers and pools leading down to the Colorado River.

Even with climbing rope for lowering our packs down cliffs and an air mattress for crossing deep pools, any single obstacle might bar us from our goal, the beach at House Rock Rapids along the Colorado River, 17 miles below Lee's Ferry. If we make it, our reward will be our own private beach in a remote stretch of canyon, not far from the place where members of a late 19th-century river expedition perished.

"We can't get past that chockstone wearing our packs," I say unnecessarily.

"We'll use the rope to lower them from above," Larry Lindahl, my hiking companion, responds, making it sound easy, although I have my doubts.

A thundercloud, foreboding as the prospect of tomorrow's descent, hangs above as we head back to our truck. A loud buzzing interrupts my thoughts.

"I hope that's not a tire," I fret. We've driven a 12-mile maze of ranch tracks and Bureau of Land Management roads scattered with nasty sharp chunks of limestone that reached for tires like toothy

jaws. We circle the truck, looking for the leak, then realize the sound is coming from the vibrating radio antenna. “Weird,” says Larry.

“Hmm . . .” I look up. The late-September weather seems suspiciously monsoonlike. Clouds dance over the Kaibab Plateau all afternoon, bellies flashing, unfurling sheets of rain along the edge of House Rock Valley.

We decide to backtrack to lower ground, then watch, amazed, as a blazing white bolt strikes our would-be campsite. The highest point along the rim, the knoll becomes the epicenter of a fierce squall. Twenty minutes later, the storm moves east toward Echo Cliffs, glowing in a swath of sunlight. A double rainbow briefly glimmers against magenta clouds.

“Maybe it’s an omen,” I say. “The storm or the rainbow?” I shake my head, unsure. We return to the knoll, but decide to sleep in the back of the truck rather than risk weathering another storm with our small tent.

I awake to blue skies as Larry returns from photographing the Vermilion Cliffs to the north. Looking west, we can see the high plateau of Grand Canyon’s North Rim. A web of hidden canyons, dark cracks in the valley floor, leads to the Colorado River.

This upper section of the Colorado’s run through Grand Canyon is known as Marble Canyon. Explorer John Wesley Powell’s 1869 account expressed awe: “The walls of the canyon, 2,500 feet high, are of marble, of many beautiful colors, often polished. . . .”For the 1889 Robert Brewster Stanton expedition, however, Marble Canyon proved a chamber of horrors. Three men drowned here on Stanton’s first attempt to navigate the Colorado. In 1890, at the beginning of Stanton’s second attempt, expedition photographer Franklin Nims fell 20 feet and nearly died. Stanton and his crew broke their journey to evacuate Nims via Rider Canyon. Our trip follows their route in reverse, from rim to river.

After maneuvering through the boulders at the top of the trail, A faint trail winds through prickly pear cacti and ephedra (Mormon tea) and around rockfalls. We reach the canyon floor and look up at the rim, 700 feet above, but can’t pick out our route from this perspective. We talk of the men who hauled Nims up this steep slope in a litter made of oars, driftwood and canvas. While Nims slipped in and out of consciousness, bleeding from his ears and nose and his leg broken, did they scan the rim above, worried about being trapped in this rocky prison? We mark our exit route with a branch, hoping we won’t miss it on our return.

The canyon captures and reflects midday heat while we scramble over rocks and around beds of dehydrating mud. Fossils-a scallop-shaped brachiopod and ancient sea lilies called crinoids-prove that life here has stretched over eons. A female collared lizard zips in front of us like a miniature dinosaur, and hoptree scents the air with heady sweetness.

As we gradually descend toward the river, the canyon floor changes to long stretches of sandstone.

Eventually, we settle into an awkward rhythm, stopping for photos, adjusting our packs, when the sandstone ends in an 8-foot drop. We decide to climb around, but another drop soon forces us to remove our packs and lower them with the rope, a tedious maneuver that we repeat several times. Nearing the river, we encounter small pools. Tracks, from insect to coyote, surround the ephemeral water. Tiny toads hop across slick expanses of mud.

Canyon walls change from talus slope to the cliff-forming Supai group. Long stairsteps of reddish sandstone lead ever downward toward the river, tantalizing us with thoughts of a cool soak.

According to the ranger who sold us our backcountry permit, we are the only hikers in Rider Canyon, and the last river trip would challenge House Rock Rapids by midday. Visions of the private paradise ahead keep us moving. Until . . . our sandstone staircase abruptly stops 6 feet above a 20-foot-wide pool in a slickrock bowl with sheer walls on either side.

We drop our packs and ponder our fate. It’s already late afternoon, but the river can’t be far away. Muddy tracks on one side of the murky pool show that river runners hiked upcanyon and stopped, unable to negotiate this obstacleevidence that doesn’t bode well for our return trip, even if we manage to cross now. We change into river sandals and, in a foolish gesture of commitment, toss our boots across the pool.

CLINGING TO THE EDGE of the pourover while he wobbles in the mud below, I lower the packs toward him before taking the plunge myself. AFTER TWICE SLIDING BACK DOWN INTO THE BOWL OF CHILLY WATER, I CLIMB OUT, shivering with relief.

Larry braves the cold water first. "It's deep in the middle, and over here it's solid mud," he warns from the other side.

Clinging to the edge of the pourover while he wobbles in the mud below, I lower the packs toward him before taking the plunge myself. After twice sliding back down into the bowl of chilly water, I climb out, shivering with relief. Three more times we encounter deep pools in the carved and fluted stone. The last, 40 feet long, cuts through sheer walls only a room's width apart. We have to climb high above, along a narrow ledge that plunges 30 feet to still water below.

Now we can hear the Colorado's whisper, the muted rush of House Rock Rapids. Though the sound beckons, we feel reluctant to leave this passage of dark-red stone, shady and secret. But other obstacles might await and, with sunset an hour away, we dare not linger. We pass through the narrows, hushed by the realization we are utterly alone in this magnificent place.

We turn a corner and see the canyon's mouth. The final test is a simple maze of willow and tamarisk trees. We step out of the brush onto buff-colored sand that slopes down to a clear lagoon, a pool of quiet water above the tumultuous rapids. The walls of Marble Canyon soar high above us, golden with late light.

Across the field of boulders fanning out from Rider Canyon, House Rock Rapids boil in a froth of blue-green and white. The roar drowns out our voices. Larry goes back to work with tripod and camera, and I cross to the main beach, scrambling up a massive boulder to look down at the surging water, one of the upper canyon's most challenging rapids. A standing wave hangs high above a churning hole, while fierce lateral waves crash along the beach.

As the last light creeps up the walls, Larry and I meet back at camp for a swim in the lagoon's chilly waters. After dinner, we lie back in our sleeping bags, looking up at the stars. Light flickers on the cliffs across river, proof that thunderstorms still threaten. In case of rain, we keep the tent nearby. We are talking nervously of flash floods, when a rustling noise interrupts our conversation.

I turn on the flashlight. Brown eyes stare back at me from a triangular face topped with large ears-a ringtail. Our food hangs high enough to deter packrats, but our efforts prove no match for him. With the grace of a cat and the cleverness of a monkey, he goes to work, ignoring the flashlight's beam.

Larry gets up to rig the bag again, while the ringtail watches closely from a nearby perch. When we next turn on the flashlight, he is standing on the sand, stretching up, bag just out of reach. He investigates various options, entertaining us until we decide our breakfast is safe and switch off the light.

But sleep comes fitfully. Roaring rapids, rustling bushes and flashing lightning mix with thoughts of the hike out. In the gray hours before dawn, men's voices startle me from a doze. Thinking an early raft trip might have pulled in to scout the rapids, I open my eyes. The beach is deserted. Puzzled, I drift back to sleep. Morning reveals a new threat. Our clear lagoon is silty gray from the night's storms. Grimly, we fill as many water bottles as we can before our filter clogs. "We'd better head out before it gets any hotter," Larry warns. We make it through the narrows without the rope and get across the bowl-shaped pool in under an hour. It's an uphill race against the sun and, for me, from an eerie sense of doom. I tell Larry about the voices. He confesses that he also heard voices the evening before. A trick of the rapids? Or the echoes of Stanton's men, discussing how to deal with Nims, "whose moans harmonized in chilling rhythm with the wind. . . ."

In January 1890, they battled sandy gusts and ice-forming cold. Our circumstances couldn't be more different: The sun beats down relentlessly as the canyon opens up. We stop frequently and drink, always measuring our remaining water against the climb out. At one stop, we compete with a pair of chuckwallas for the meager shade of a boulder. They hide in a dark crevice at our intrusion. We welcome the sight of the branch marking the route up. By the time we climb the steep talus onto the rim, my legs are quivering. I think of the relief Stanton's men felt when they stood on this very spot. Mine is mixed with a sense of triumph. We grin at each other, a little goofily. How fortunate we are compared to Nims, who woke from his ordeal a week later to learn that he'd been cut from the expedition's payroll and expected to fund his own way home, while the rest of the crew continued downriver with his camera. Al EDITOR'S NOTE: For those who would like to learn to take professional landscape photographs like those in this issue, the Friends of Arizona Highways has two photo workshops that will interest you. One, led by photographer Chuck Lawson from October 3 to October 7, will concentrate on shooting autumn color on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The other, led by Richard Maack, the magazine's photography editor, will visit the slot canyons of northern Arizona, October 20 to October 24. For information and reservations, call (888) 790-7042, or visit the group's Web site at www.friendsofazhighways.com.

LOCATION: Approximately 150 miles north of Flagstaff. GETTING THERE: From Flagstaff, drive north on U.S. Route 89 to Bitter Springs. Continue north and then west on U.S. Route 89A. Crossing the Colorado River, go about 10 miles past Cliff Dwellers Lodge, then turn left (south) onto the first road past Milepost 557. The dirt road forks left (east) several times, dwindling to a rocky two-track that requires a high-clearance vehicle. A good map or guidebook is essential for following the 12-mile route to the trailhead.

TRAVEL ADVISORY: A backcounty permit is required to camp in Marble Canyon, which lies within the boundaries of Grand Canyon National Park. Campfires are not allowed, and backpackers must adhere to guidelines minimizing impact.

WARNING: Depending on season and weather, this canyoneering experience may require wading, swimming, scrambling, rock climbing and route finding. Dangerous heights and extreme temperatures are possible. Carry plenty of water, in addition to a filter for use with any local water source. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: Backcountry Office, Grand Canyon National Park, (928) 638-7888, www.thecanyon.com.