Let's go down to the river to play

(This was published in The Valley Journal in June of 2006 after I returned from one wonderful journey down the river)

From the depths of the Grand Canyon

(Editor's note: Valley Journal reporter Gina Guarascio begged and pleaded and basically made it clear that she was going to spend 18 days on the Colorado River. So she went. From May 7-24, while the rest of the VJ staff worked overtime, she was obviously enjoying the trip of a lifetime.)By Gina Guarascio

"Mountains of music swell in the river, hills of music billow in the creeks ... while other melodies are heard in the gorges of the lateral canyons. The Grand Canyon is a land of song."— John Wesley Powell

"Let's go down to the river to play, paddling the waves ev-ery-day, oh river, show me the way." That's the song we sang every day, for 18 days, as we strapped on our kayaks and ventured out to journey down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Kim, Sonja and I, three kayakers known affectionately as the "Tupperware," sang it to the tune of "I go down to the river to pray," from Oh Brother Where Art Thou. It's a catchy tune.
This is how I pray
Praying for me means being baffled with wonder, filled with ghosts of thoughts from times so far before I ever existed. Before anything but single-celled anaerobic bits existed. The river carved this canyon 40 million years ago. The rocks that it sculpted were created billions of years ago. I am struck with awe, dumb with wonder every time I look up, and up and up. Instead of living a mile high, I am a bottom dweller looking up. Kayakers, as many people know, are at the very bottom — a very, very good place to be.
Friends in low places
I found the best friends I have on the river. It is a time to meet a gaggle of people who act strange and awkward one day and are laughing till it hurts the next. Why? It's because you are so small — especially in the Grand Canyon — connecting with others feels like strength. We're all in this together. And there were no Republicans on our trip. That was good.
The Grand Canyon from Lee's Ferry to Diamond Creek is 226 miles. The water is incarcerated by Glen Canyon Dam with measured releases by the Bureau of Reclamation depending on who's using their air conditioner or eating at an all night buffet in Las Vegas. It wasn't always like that, but that's how it is these days.
Young, naked and looking up
This trip really started in April when the storied river runner Katie Lee came to Carbondale to talk about experiential education at CRMS. She is one of very few people who floated through Glen Canyon before it was drowned, and down the Grand Canyon when the water was warm, rich with nutrients and colored red — like it's name. Now the water is green, clear and a frigid 59 degrees coming out of the bottom of the dam. Katie is an elderly woman, her skin worn and wrinkled like a button-up shirt stuffed in a suitcase, but she is radiant. Her knuckle bones are large and swollen. However, she is still holding her guitar and singing her folk songs of life before that damn dam. She showed pictures of a place we'll never know. Glen Canyon was a magical place.We bought a poster of her. She is naked. Her slim tanned body, taut muscles and blond bob were somewhere inside of the wrinkled exterior that was entertaining us that day. She must have been around 29 years old in the photo, the same age as I am now, looking up between two thighs of smooth carved rock staring up with wonder and awe at a miraculous side canyon. I thought that if I had an opportunity to go to a place like that, to be young and beautiful and free, I should go.
The Canyon is serum, a life-giving potion that renews the soul, fans the flames of love, and builds friendships that last forever. It is the place. It is the people. A package that I am always so grateful to receive.
Back in 2006
This tale would be better 10 or 20 years from now, when I could begin with the unimaginative hook, "back in 2006." Most any good river story starts with the words "back in ____". Our trip leader, Marcia, was fond of river stories that started with "back in '83." So forgive me as this story hasn't marinated for the proper length of time to become a river tale, or river lore. What happens on the river stays on the river. More often deep satisfying love is discovered than lost, unless you're the one stuck on the rim. Then the person you waved goodbye to so many days ago could very well be lost to you. If you did not come on the trip, you are a different species. The people who travel this stretch are invariably "different" once they dry off at the takeout. It's hard not to smile and stare into your comrades' eyes knowing this collage of special secrets. The stories of glory or uncontrollable, unbelievable laughter never translate outside of the big ditch; at least not for about 10 years when they can be rightfully embellished to entertain and the truth be sacrificed to that pursuit. Just like Hollywood.
The ancient ones
I hope I am a Hopi, even though I'm pretty sure I'm only Italian. But, if I were a Hopi, then the feelings that overcame my body and soul at the Little Colorado River would be warranted. Cold, green, big Colorado water merges with the warm Caribbean turquoise water of the Little Colorado and we paddle our boats right up inside. I felt as if I was invited and I was so comfortable that I shed my clothes, donned an inflatable froggy and floated in a desert paradise so idyllic it would impress even the most over-indulged teenager. For the Hopi, the Grand Canyon symbolizes the Sipapu. According to legends, the ancestral Hopi passed through a succession of worlds within the interior of the earth, emerging onto the surface through the Sipapu, a travertine spring in the Little Colorado Canyon.*I feel I am reborn in this tranquil aqua blue canal. As a woman, this myth suits me much more than its Christian creationist counterpart. Created from the rib of a man (albeit a righteous dude), or emerged into paradise from after traveling through other worlds. I am a swimmer. I am an athlete and schemer, a lover and a dreamer ... and I'm not the only one.
Moonbeams
We pass by Vishnu Temple, standing nobly above the layers after Tanner Rapid. We have sailed by the Unkar Delta, which was quite a metropolis for the Indians who cultivated corn, beans and squash. The moon emerges from behind a thick dark silhouette. The shadow rolls up the canyon wall like a manual window cranked slowly by a spaced-out child. I'm as free as a bird now. The water laps at the shore, corrosive and stubborn, light and playful, or tormenting and violent. It depends how much you tip the kettle. The Colorado River drops 1,900 feet from Lee's Ferry to Lake Mead. Half of the drop occurs in the 160 rapids. These rapids only account for 9 percent of the total distance. There is a lot of flat water.
The Grand Canyon is my secret pleasure. We are invited to come along. It all becomes a blur of breakfast, lunch and dinner, in between is a haze of colors, textures, thrills and noise — always noise — the kind that gels with the 70 percent of you that is what you float on. Water flows through canyons like blood pulsing through our veins. The small portion that is the brain, the driver, succumbs. I let go.
Peaceful, easy feeling
At Grapevine camp (mile 81.5), we throw a Pirate Party. It is my husband Spencer's 36th birthday and he is having the time of his life (evidenced by the perma-grin) singing songs like, "If I were a pirate and you were my matie, I'd bend you over and make you my lady." Argg! Tequila seeps into my tired dehydrated muscles and that peaceful easy feeling travels from my toes to my nose as we slow dance to that love song nestled in each other's necks, tasting salt and crunching on specks of dirt. We elope hand and hand into the darkness to enjoy each other's company.
The Inner Gorge
The river narrows to 76 feet at mile 135. Just upstream and downstream of this choke is the inner gorge, a cathedral of some of the world's oldest rock. Riding on currents of water through sculpted granite, gneiss and schist that is injected with pink and red Zoroaster granite is unlike anything. Every nook requires a careful look. The Tupperware are always lagging behind, screeching and chanting and experiencing multiple eye-gasms. The inner gorge is a sanctuary that passes by so quickly I am assured I am having a very good time. The weight and the depth and the age of the rock settles in like the crystalline seeps of the weeping rocks.
You're always above Lava
We are at mile 96 and a half, after Phantom Ranch through Horn Creek and Granite and the world has settled in on me. It might just be the perfect combinations of Weeds, Whites and Wine, but I feel a sign. It is so familiar and so, so good. It brings me back to other times and other places that I swore I'd never forget. It all settles in sitting on this rock by this river. Then we are flying through the current like bugs on a windy day using our paddles as wings to guide us through the swirling waters. Sometimes it's more fun not to use the paddle at all, just the hips to absorb the waters whims. Waltzing with the water, an excellent dance partner. Waltenburg Canyon is like a rare gem store on steroids. Every rock holds glittered faces or splatter-painted masterpieces. It is the official Grand Canyon modern art museum.
It's the stillest night in the canyon yet. Looking up, puffs of white decorate a stale blue sky. It is completely still. I am vacant like an ancient clay vessel taking in all of this grandeur. Every day, every second, is a shocking new miracle of this creation, this earth that we all live and breath on every day. It is easy to take it for granted, to forget that there is mystery and magic and that you are blessed to own it right here and now. We are surrounded on all sides by words and feelings and beliefs and ideals, and they were all born from this rock. The rock of ages. The timetable of the planet. The stillness is like an envelope sealing in memories of the last two weeks. Little bits of video play though my mind reminding me of the best of times that made me laugh so freely or think so deeply. I miss it, but then again you're always above Lava (a common saying by river runners, eternal optimists, who think they will be running this river again and again therefore always above the biggest and most feared rapid).
Just stop
It is day 16. We arrive at Pumpkin Springs and stay a while under the shade of a tamarisk. We visit the Space Hole upstream, a perfect straw of carved stone that is taller than me with my hands above my head. I take the slide and my body is deposited on a flat shelf above the river. We jump off completely naked to swim a quarter mile to the beach catching eddies with our toes and finger tips. The Tupperware are not ready to leave this alcove. We explore countless Nome Homes and Troll Holes as if we are the creatures they were made for by the majesty herself. After several long minutes of deep contemplation we struggle with neck gaskets and neoprene skirts and head downstream, paddling to catch up.We are distracted by the Tapeats sandstone that looks like giant bookshelves after an earthquake. I am involved in a meditative paddle session, dipping one blade into the soup after another, when Kim says, "Let's just stop."We are in no hurry to get to the end. As a matter of fact, the thought of the takeout gives me a powerful urge to paddle back upstream and live out my days in one of those rock holes we discovered. We stop. It is silent, except for the occasional descending whistle of the Canyon Wren and the movement of the water against the rocks. We three lay there in silence for once with our backs arched and our heads resting on the back of our kayaks. I am floating through space. I am completely, utterly absorbed in this scene, spinning in the boil lines that are gentler down here. The ancient canyon walls loom above us, towering, yet benign. The smell of blooming mesquite hovers in the air, the ocotillo cactus are waving their flailing arms, families of barrel cactus perched on tiny rock ledges watch over with care. Bees gorge on their nectar.
It is spring time in the canyon.



"Such things ... as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or a lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind — what else is there? What else do we need?"— Edward Abbey