More than 150 named rapids pepper the Colorado’s run through the Grand Canyon, ranging from gentle riffles to massive, boatswallowing flows. And with water temperatures rarely nudging above 10°C, anyone unlucky enough to take an inadvertent swim needs to be fished out in 10 minutes or less to avoid hypothermia.
Ariel is mostly understated about the challenges of the river, but in the days leading up to Hermits, one of the meanest stretches of white water in the Canyon, she repeatedly refers to it—eyes twinkling—as a “seething cauldron of hydraulic madness.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, is it? you can’t actually flip one of these big barges?” I ask.
“Until a year ago I would have said no. But then I saw it happen on lava falls. People everywhere—it was spectacular,” she says with no hint of irony. Then, catching herself, “everyone was fine.”
Misadventures are rare on the river these days, especially on outfitted trips. But that’s not to say the Colorado has been tamed. Down here, where communications with the world beyond the canyon rim are limited, takeout points are arduous, and rescue opportunities are few and perilous, it still comes down to an elemental struggle: one boatman’s luck and savvy pitted against a force of nature. Beyond the staggering age and brutal beauty of the place, this raw, unpredictable wilderness experience is a big part of what makes this canyon so grand.
Feeling courageous, I opt for a Bathtub seat through Hermits anyway. As we bear into the watery cauldron, so powerful is the river that it picks me up and strings me out to the side like a flag in heavy winds as I cling to the safety rope in my seat. The boat sinks into a trough and comes nose-to-nose with a six-meter wall of water. It was at this moment, I find out later, that the motor floods, the boat begins to stall, and the prospect of capsizing presents itself. But Ariel doesn’t panic. Tongue stuck hard out the side of her mouth in determination, she keeps an eye on the approaching tumult and yanks at the engine cord with her spare hand until the motor fires. Then she guns it over the wave.
On the other side, when everyone is accounted for, it’s all adrenaline-fueled whoops and high fives. Ariel, however, is serene. “It’s always a good day to come out the other side,” she murmurs. “You never know exactly what this river holds.” With that, she spins the boat onto glassy waters stained gold and red in the late-afternoon sunlight, and we follow the current westward through immense stone walls that feel like they will go on and on for eternity.
