Wes Boyd's
Spearfish Lake Tales
Contemporary Mainstream Books and Serials Online


January 2003

After sitting in the car for hours of driving across a barren but colorful desert, I stood on Navajo Bridge over Marble Canyon and looked down at the green of the Colorado River. The view from the bridge was tremendous, but my eyes were drawn downward to the river. Hundreds of feet below, the silver dots of several rafts floated on the surface, heading out for a trip down through the Grand Canyon. Like anyone that likes boating and backcountry, I couldn't help but wish that I was down there with them, heading out for a journey through the most awesome landscape on earth, bar none.

It was something of a miracle that I was there on that hot, clear day in August of 1998, staring down into the abyss at the water far below. Despite several years spent in the west when I was younger, I'd never been there before. The occasion was an often-delayed family driving trip that I'd been wanting to take for years. My wife and daughter were exploring a nearby gift store, while I, like a good kayaker, stared down at the water and dreamed.

"You coming?" my wife called as she headed for the air conditioning of the car.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied glumly, letting my dreams go. I glanced down at the rafts far below one last time, and in my mind wished everyone down there a good trip, a trip of a lifetime. Maybe someday . . .

I can't say I put a lot of time into thinking about it over the next four and a half years. It was just laying there on the list of something I wanted to do, someday, if I ever got the chance. I can't even say it was at the head of the list, at least at first, but I read some books, and did some research now and then, nothing much.

One of the things that I have to do in my job is to type obituaries. Actually, these days, I mostly scan them, but sometimes one comes in via fax that the scanner just won't handle, and I actually have to be old-fashioned and keyboard it. Sometimes, it's a depressing job, especially when I have to type up one for someone that's younger than I am, which is happening all too frequently any more. One day in early January of 2003, I was doing just that, but my mind was wandering. How many things had this person had on their "maybe-someday" list that they'd put off for a retirement that never came?

I got back into kayaking for just that reason. When you get to be my age, you become aware of the fact that the somedays may never come. I'd had big plans to do some serious back-country trips out of the kayak, but for one reason or another, most had never come off. Maybe this was the year I ought to do the French River trip I'd planned for years, or go off whale-watching with a group of people I know. I tend to think about those things in January, when it's cold, and warm thoughts of trips to come help to pass the seemingly endless days.

But, there were two problems: the biggest one is that I have to take off wierd weeks. I can sometimes manage a Wednesday through Monday trip, allowing me to get a paper out each week. But, I've worked out a deal with the guy that publishes the paper in the next town, who has the same "can't get away" problem. Once a year, most years, we'll put out joint issues -- he'll put one out, and then a couple weeks later, I'll put one out. That gives us each a chance to be gone someplace longer than six days. But, it doesn't always come off; there's a lot going on in the summer, and sometimes we can't get our schedules together.

The other problem is also related to my age and health -- basically, my wife has laid down the law, no solo backcountry trips. I've chafed under the rule a bit, and it's blown up several good trips, since I can rarely get someone that can be gone on my odd schedule to go with me. My wife? No. She doesn't do kayaking, she doesn't do camping -- a Motel 6 is roughing it for her, and I can't get her to do that often. At least she does let me go off with a group on outdoor trips the last few years, but it's only a lick and a promise toward some of the trips I would liked to have done.

So, there I was, staring at the computer screen halfway through the obituary, realizing that I didn't really want to even think about planning some even mild backcountry trip with the near likelihood that it wouldn't come off, and be disappointed again. What I ought to do, I thought, was take some commercial trip, where getting someone to go with me wouldn't be an issue at all. Let someone else worry about the logistics and the scutwork; just show up, flash some plastic, have some fun.

I typed a few more words . . . survived by, arrangements in charge of . . . face it fat guy, you're not getting any younger. If you're going to do something, don't waste a year with something penny-ante. Do something grand. Grand Canyon. I finished the obit, saved it, and got online.

I didn't get a lot of work done that afternoon, but learned quite a bit. In the beginning, I was looking for non-motorized trips -- let's face it, I'm a paddle person. But, there are problems.

The biggest problem is that even the shorter full-length trips took more time than I could get away, even with the help of the guy in the next town. It is possible to take a "half-trip", hiking up or down the Bright Angel Trail, and I thought about that real hard. I used to be a fair hiker, but haven't been for years. Hiking up that trail, 5000 feet ascent in seven miles, a steeper trail than we used to consider "desirable" on the North Country Trail, back when I was involved with that? I don't think so, not any more. Twenty years ago, that would have been a different story. Hiking down? Well, maybe -- but a little thought made me realize that it's a killer on knees and ankles. Worse, the raft companies that I looked at all wanted to have a meeting on the rim at maybe five or six in the morning, and then have you down to the river by noon. Not undoable, but still a killer. If I could take my time, go slow and take frequent rests, well, maybe, but that wasn't going to work. Take a mule? $800, and a 200 pound limit. I didn't waste a lot of time on that web page.

Besides, I got to thinking that joining a trip that's already halfway through isn't the funnest thing to do. The group that you're joining has had several days to develop a group dynamic, develop their cliques, and you're just going to be an outsider. Worst of all, a half-trip was only half a trip -- a teaser; you know you're going to miss the best part, whichever half you take. Finally, reluctantly, I ditched the idea.

A couple of companies offer shorter than normal paddle or oar trips, and I thought hard about those. They're expensive, and worse, the dates just didn't work. Well, maybe a motor trip wouldn't be that bad. A lot of people deride motor trips as "boloney boats", and say that it doesn't give the true Canyon experience, and they may be right -- but, given the time restraints, I could take a full-length motor trip and see twice the countryside, although not as thoroughly as on a paddle trip, and still emerge capable of walking. And, it cost less -- a shorter time having something to do with it -- still way over budget, but not as far out of reach.

So, I went through the websites again, noting down possible trips. There's a potload of companies that do Grand Canyon trips, and each one is a little different. Schedules are different, prices are different, and pickup and dropoff arrangements are different. One very appealing trip, for example, delivers you right to the airport in Las Vegas at the end of the trip -- but at the beginning, you have to find your own way to Page, Arizona. There's a $200 car rental right there, a nicely hidden little cost.

You normally think of a Grand Canyon trip as a summer thing, and that's when most people are out there -- but trips start as early as the first part of April, and they aren't as crowded. It turns out that the companies get booked pretty solid well in advance in the summer, but the early spring trips often don't even fill up; one particular oar trip in early April I investigated didn't have anyone signed up! Besides, looking at my calendar, there were a couple of holes, one in mid April, the other in early May, when there wasn't anything special planned at work, and it would be less crowded and cooler in the Canyon. Hmmm.

It was still over budget, but I had some stuff sitting in the shop that I hadn't used for years. A guy I know had expressed interest in one major item; one day, I called him up and cut him a deal. Then, I sold an article to Sea Kayaker Magazine. All of a sudden, the trip was almost within budget. One by one, a list of a dozen possible trips got whittled down, one for this reason, one for that, until I finally had it down to a list of three possibilties. And, on Monday, January 13, 2003, I picked up the phone and dialed the 800 number for Arizona River Runners, which had the trip that led the list. Yes, there were spots open, the friendly gal on the phone said -- quite a few, in fact. Fine, I said, let me nail down an airline reservation, and I'll get back with you.

I put the phone down and stared at it. It was a lot of money -- I'd never before even thought of spending that kind of money on a trip just for myself. By the time I got through with the trip, the airfare, a new camera, trip insurance, a couple pieces of gear, a hotel for a night in Lost Wages and other odds and ends, I'd spend as much as I spent on my Nimbus Telkwa. Fat guy, you're not getting any younger, I thought, and tomorrow may not come. Thinking of what it would be like to look up at the Navajo Bridge and see someone looking down and wishing, I picked up the phone and called the airline.


January - April 2003

In the hundred days or so between the decision and the trip there was a lot to do -- and, in many ways, not enough to do.

Once I'd made the decision and spent a fair amount of time working out the details, it was impossible to keep up the same level of anticipation -- but since I was obsessing about the trip, it was necessary to find other things to do to keep my mind off it.

But that didn't keep me from being interested. Right at the beginning, I ordered some books about the Canyon. Probably the single most interesting and informative was The Colorado River in Grand Canyon - A Guide, by Larry Stevens. Another one of more than usual interest was Canyon Solo by Pat McCarren. These and others helped to fill a few of the long evenings while I waited.

A few days later, the information packet arrived from Arizona River Runners. I'd already done some thinking about gear and clothes, but now discovered that I was going to be limited to one fairly large dry bag and about 25 pounds, although they'd be supplying items like a tent and sleeping bag, so I wouldn't have to deal with that. Because of the special requirements of the trip, this was a good chance to get some outdoor gear and clothes I'd been wanting for some time. On examining what I already had, I decided I didn't need all that much: a couple pair of pants, preferably with zip-off legs to keep from having to take some extra shorts, a good rainsuit, more to keep splashes off from the cold river, although there was the odd chance that it might actually rain.

In kayaking, but even more in backpacking, you keep hearing people talking about "killer cotton" -- the only material you shouldn't wear, since it gets wet easily, doesn't dry easily, and has poor insulation when wet. It's all true, but folks, I'm here to tell you that if you are an "extra size" person, finding outdoor wear that isn't cotton -- well, it isn't easy and is pretty close to "can't be done". Fortunately, only pretty close, but it probably couldn't have been done if I was much bigger.

One of the few places that I'm aware of that has a reasonable selection of outdoor wear in plus sizes is Cabelas. It's especially nice that they have a superstore about 50 miles away. I knew from their catalog that they stocked pants in Supplex that seemed like they might work. A Saturday afternoon visit got the rainsuit easily enough, but, even a superstore didn't have the shirt size I needed, and their idea of 3X in Supplex pants wasn't even close to big enough.

So, I went straight to the internet. I can usually turn up what I’m looking for there in a few minutes, thanks to modern search engines. Not this time. Over a period of several days, I spent six hours chasing up blind alleys. I found several places that seemed to have potential, but when I got to the size charts, it seemed their definition of “2X” and mine were pretty different. One place seemed to think that a 40" waist was a 3XL, which was the largest they stocked.

I did actually find the pants I was looking for on the Bass Pro Shops website. They’re designed for tarpon fishermen, guys that wade out on the flats off the Florida Keys -- and the prices were much better than Cabelas. I ordered a pair and was surprised to find out that they fit, exactly what I was looking for. In fact, I was so pleased that I ordered a second pair, which soon showed up -- and to my surprise, though they still fit, they were a considerably different pair of pants.

A short sleeve shirt from Bass Pro Shops fit fine, but they didn't have a long-sleeved one, so it was back to the Cabela's website. Considering how small the matching pants were I didn't have a lot of hope for the 3X shirt, but when it showed up it was the largest 3X I'd ever seen. I sent it back for a 2X, and that was still biggish. At least I'm down to a 2X in something!

Next to the clothes, I spent more time on cameras than on anything else. This was a problem, more because of the possibility of getting a camera wet than anything else, and especially so since digitals and water don't get along well. I converted to digital years ago and do very little with film any more. In fact, the only film I've shot in a couple years is with a $14 Vivitar I bought to take out in the kayak with me (if I drop it overboard, I'm only out $14!), but it's not much of a camera and I've wanted a decent boat camera for some time.

I gave some real serious thought to buying a used Nikonos underwater camera -- they're out of production -- but finally, on the recommendation of several people, decided on a Pentax WR-95. It took me a while to get around to that decision, and it was March before the camera showed up. I ran a test roll of film through it the first thing -- and found myself impressed with some of the features, disgusted with some of the unnecessary complexity, and disappointed in how unsharp the lens was -- it was little better than the $14 Vivitar! I thought long and hard. Nikonos after all? I decided that what I really needed to do was to take a SLR, in other words, a real camera. Finally, I decided to keep the WR-95 and take it on the trip -- but as a spare and a river camera. For the main camera, I'd turn to something proven and familiar -- one of my 30 year old Pentax Spotmatics! That way I could take some extra lenses and filters and a few other useful odds and ends -- and be able to do it right.

Piece by piece, the gear fell into place, until finally I found myself standing in a stationary store and trying to decide among three different notebooks. Realizing that perhaps I was getting a little obsessive, I just decided to take the one on top and call it good enough.

I did hear from Arizona River Runners a couple times during this period. When I first signed up for the trip, it was way underbooked, and every time I heard from them I figured that this was the announcement that it had been cancelled. But no -- what I heard was good news. The first time they called, it seemed that with only about 10 people signed up, they decided that that they'd better do some discounting to fill out the trip -- and they passed the discount along to those that had already signed up! A check for $300 showed up a few days later, and finally, the trip was in budget. You have to like people that do business that way.

The second call came along in April -- they wanted me to sign a photo release, since there was a film crew going along! Well, sure -- this just made it more interesting.

A big day came in late April, when I boxed up the majority of the gear and sent it by UPS to the hotel where I would be staying the night before we were picked up. I'd decided to send the gear ahead, rather than checking it on the airline -- that way I could be sure it got there. Lost Wages may be a big town, but doing gear replacement shopping at the last minute was the last way I wanted to spend most of the day that I'd have to kill there before the trip. When that box went on the big brown truck, a big sense of reality set in.

Slowly, the days dwindled down. I did the setup I needed to do to be able to get the paper out the week I'd be gone, took a weekend to haul stuff home from my daughter's apartment. Slowly, the ice came out of the lakes, and I got out with the kayak a few times. The last few days drug by, and I tried to move my wake-sleep schedule around to allow for the different time zone, and living with the daylight, rather than staying up late. And, mostly, looking forward to what promised to be a great trip.


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