Between a Rock and a Wet Place (cont.)

You Are Here:

Home >> Travel >> Between a Rock and a Wet Place (cont.)

Today's Question
Where should I camp in Switzerland with my kids? answer

What's the best volcano to hike up in North America? answer

How can I plan a trip around riding the biggest, fastest roller coasters? answer

Online Favorites

Special Issues

Photo Galleries

Outside Magazine September 2001

Page:

Between a Rock and a Wet Place (cont.)

A simple enough formula, but flash flood or no, canyon waters can be strong and fast. Canyoneers are human kayaks—jumping waterfalls, skidding down water slides, ferrying from bank to bank. To prepare, we spend the afternoon practicing swiftwater-swimming techniques in the Salt River. Donning wetsuits, helmets, and PFDs, we wade into Class II whitewater until the current sweeps us into a series of wave trains, holes, and boulders. The goal is to get through the main flow without breaking any bones or inhaling too much water. I go first, struggling not to get taken out at the ankles as I work my way along a ledge. I'm a hack kayaker, but I know how to read a river. If I can't get into the main channel, I'll be run through the rocks. One more step and the rapid is too strong for standing, but I take it anyway, scrambling to the left as I fall. No dice. The current spits me out, and I'm immediately pushed feet-first onto an SUV-size boulder. After multiple ass-poundings, I'm sucked back into the main channel. One by one we pull our bruised bodies up on the riverbank, coughing brown water out our noses.

Canyoneers are human kayaks—jumping waterfalls, skidding down water slides, ferrying from bank to bank.

With two days of rope and river work behind me, I feel capable of handling any canyon. And indeed, the Cibecue trip we take on day three goes flawlessly. We scramble, we climb, we jump, we swim. No one catches a rock on the skull. No one practices 60-foot vertical cartwheels. The day-hike-accessible lower canyon, with its boulders, lush willows, and cat's claw butting up against warm sandstone walls simply pales compared to the hidden, upper reaches—a massive sculptural landscape swept clean by gravity and water.

As we begin our final descent through the lower canyon, storm clouds cast the gorge into shadows. I smell the rain before I see it; the air is sweet. A few drops fall on my upturned face as I scan the walls. At 200 cubic feet per second, the creek pulls at my knees, but this, apparently, is nothing; in the mid-70s, Carlson tells me later, 22,000 cfs roared through Cibecue, pouring over all seven of the major falls until they disappeared. I stop and look over my shoulder, but the only rumble is that of thunder. And then it begins to pour and we stomp through the creek like kids.

When we're young, all we need for fun is deep water and something to jump off—the town pier, an abandoned railroad bridge, the walls of a flooded quarry. At its best, canyoneering lets you act like a kid again. Sure, you need a rope and a harness, but that's just so you can rap to that next set of pools. There's no summit to strive for, no best time to beat, nobody critiquing your technique. Take a nap in the sun, explore the next bend, rappel down a waterfall—chill out. Just keep your wits about you.

Page: