Bird of Paradise

Battered but intact, I swam to shore. It had been a long day.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Grand Canyon National Park officials warn that it is illegal and dangerous to attempt to swim any distance of the Colorado River. Designated swimming areas of calm water away from rapids are best for cooling off. River-raft guides and boatmen are aware of safe places to swim. The flow of water changes within minutes and the river rises rapidly, making a swim anywhere along the Colorado a potentially risky endeavor.

In the assumption I could swim about 10 miles a day, I would need a month's worth of food. So the food, sleeping bag, stove, fuel and more went into four small, bright-yellow waterproof drums.

On May 30, 1969, I drove across Navajo Bridge, about 5 miles downriver from Lee's Ferry. My pulse quickened as I looked at the Colorado River 467 feet below. My lonely drive from Bloomington, Indiana, had ended, and my adventure was about to begin.

I found Lee's Ferry nearly deserted and set to work hiding my yellow drums near a boulder-covered beach in a thick grove of scrub willows. After five rough trips, my drums were hidden, but I was soaked in sweat and covered with spiderwebs, and it felt like bugs had set up housekeeping in my hair. Exhausted, I went to Marble Canyon Lodge to clean up and eat dinner.

I slept in my car that night. It took most of the next day to fill the inner tubes with air, and then, under cover of darkness, I carried my supplies to the river. Seven trips later, I forced an inner tube over each drum, lashed them together and attached the towrope. After struggling into my wet suit, I stepped into the ice-cold water and was on my way.

I swam at a steady pace with my drums trailing behind. The stars disappeared, and darkness closed in around me. All I could hear was the murmur and gurgle of the river as it slid unstoppably along. Suddenly, I heard a loud splash and then another. Was someone throwing rocks from the top of the cliff? Not likely.

Some animal, maybe a beaver, was probably smacking its tail on the water to warn of my presence.

At daybreak, I passed beneath Navajo Bridge and let loose one of my best Tarzan yells in celebration. All too soon, I heard the growling of Badger Creek Rapids at Mile 8. Bobbing along at eyeball level with the river, all I could see was white spray leaping up where the river disappeared. Since this was my first rapid, I swam to shore to look it over. I saw a mass of white water, rocks and a huge boulder sticking up near the middle. If I missed the boulder, I would be okay.

Back in the river, I kicked hard away from where I thought the boulder was. When I reached the rapids, the boulder was on my right. Good. I went charging down into the white spray and churning water, glanced off a rock and spun out of control. A rock knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to the surface just as my trailing drums crashed down on top of me, forcing me under again. Somehow I escaped injury and surfaced in fast, smooth water. Battered but intact, I swam to shore. It had been a long day.

The next morning, I decided that from now on I would push the barrels through the rapids, to keep them from crashing down on me again. I slid into the water and tried pushing them. Much better. I rested for the remainder of the day at a great-looking sandbar. That night, lying on top of my bag with the sky full of shimmering stars overhead and the river gurgling along beside me, I wondered how anyone could ask for anything more.

I woke at about midnight to find water all around me and getting deeper by the minute. Bewildered, I threw whatever supplies

I could up onto the rocks behind me and waited for daylight. At dawn, I packed my barrels and slipped into the water. The roar of the next rapid soon dominated everything. I followed my drums into the turbulence and began to ricochet through the boulders under water. I needed air badly. The color of the water told me where the surface was, and I struggled upward. At the surface, I sucked in more water than air and started to choke. I was drowning! Somehow, I reached the surface again and so survived Soap Creek Rapids. Six miles later, I reached House Rock Rapids and the rocky delta extending out from Rider Canyon. I wanted to take a look at the canyon, so I beached my rig on the delta and wrapped the rope around a rock. I left my wet suit on, stored everything else and headed for the canyon. On my return, my drums had vanished and the delta was awash. It had happened again! Later, I realized the river rises and falls dramatically as a result of water releases to spin the turbines in Glen Canyon Dam. Now my situation was desperate. I had to catch those drums. I plunged into the river, but without my hood and gloves, my hands felt like I had stuck them into an ice bucket. House Rock Rapids really beat me up, but I plunged on through rapid after rapid, desperately hoping to spot a yellow drum. Dusk closed in. My hands were no longer a part of me, my body was vibrating like a tuning fork and I was swimming mechanically. Although it was now too dark to run rapids, I swam on. I told myself the next rapid would positively be the last one. When I emerged, I caught a glimpse of a pale yellow spot. My drums!

Unbelievable. They were caught in a back eddy just waiting for me. Pushing the drums, I camped at the first place I found. After 13 hours in the river without fins, gloves or hood, I was completely spent. At sunup, I resumed my journey, swimming easily-happy to have my drums back. The next morning I sat naked on the bank, sipping hot chocolate and watching the river go by. Suddenly, a pontoon boat came around the bend, bristling with people like quills on the back of a porcupine. By the time I had struggled into the lower half of my wet suit, I was surrounded by a mob all talking at once. When I explained I was swimming the Grand Canyon, the guide expressed his surprise that I had already made it 53 miles from Lee's Ferry. However, he insisted I get on the boat with him, as I was breaking the law. Besides, he assured me I would never make it through the rapids ahead anyway. Captured. My adventure had ended. I made a silent promise I would return someday. I did-making two more attempts. Both failed in less than 53 miles. Looking back, I have no regrets. It is now 2007, and I am 81 years old, but my Grand Canyon adventure memories are still very real and often take me back to the most exciting time of my life. AH John Findley grew up in Bloomington, Indiana, and is a Navy veteran of World War II. John is a spelunker, a scuba diver, an exhibition skydiver and is writing a book about his adventures. He lives in Sun City West.