Grand Canyon | Outside Online

You Are Here:

Home >> Travel >> Ain't it Just Grand (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, June 2005

Page:

Ain't it Just Grand (cont.)


	INNER FLOW: Deer Creek Falls plunging into a Colorado River pool (Kurt Markus)

WE BEGIN WHERE ALL Grand Canyon journeys begin: at Lees Ferry, 15 miles downstream from Glen Canyon Dam. Gathered at the put-in ramp around three bulbous baggage rafts and six elegant, scimitar-shaped dories are 18 passengers from all over the United States, among them Duane Kelly and his wife, Cosette, a pair of retired teachers from Kansas City; Pat Newman, an accountant from Golden, Colorado, here with her husband, Dennis, who invents devices to monitor medical patients; and Devon Meade, a singer from Los Angeles, who used to perform backup vocals for Alice Cooper. An eclectic hodgepodge, the clients are united by the simple fact that all of them want to see the canyon and the river through Litton's eyes while it's still possible.

The trip has been outfitted by OARS, the Angels Camp, California, company that now owns Litton's old guiding concession, and it's being led by Bill "Bronco" Bruchak, a barrel-chested former beer distributor from Pennsylvania who's been running the canyon for 28 years.

In the fifties, using the graceful wooden boats called dories, Litton helped pioneer Grand Canyon whitewater. In the sixties and seventies, he helped block two dams that would have turned the Colorado River into a lake.

Bronco is joined by Rondo Buecheler and Eric Sjoden, who have worked the river for nearly three decades, along with three members of the "Dale dynasty," the most illustrious family in Grand Canyon dory guiding. Sue "Coyote" Dale—whom everybody calls 'Ote—is here with her son, Duffy (who started rowing a dory at the age of three while perched on his father's lap) and Duffy's uncle, Tim. Rounding out the crew are the baggage boatmen: Curtis Newell, Ryan Howe, and their grumpy court jester, Blaustein, who has known Litton since 1970 and collaborated with him on The Hidden Canyon, a 1977 book that stands as the definitive tribute to boating on the river.

While the crew rigs the boats, Litton sits quietly in the Sequoia, his physical appearance bespeaking both weightiness and mileage. The skin on his face, framed by a thick white beard and mustache, is creased with wrinkles and flecked with broken veins. His eyes are a startling shade of blue. The backs of his powerful hands are covered with liver spots. Together, these features make him endearing and intimidating all at once—part Santa Claus, part Old Testament prophet.

Litton has been through the Grand Canyon at least 35 times, but even he doesn't know the exact number. In 1997, then 80, he set a record, which still stands, as the oldest boatman ever to run the canyon, rowing every rapid himself. But recently his age has started taking a toll on his reflexes, which is why the setup on this trip is a bit different.

Litton will spend the better part of each day rowing the Sequoia, but when we hit some of the more technically challenging rapids, Tim Dale will have to dance out of the stern and try to convince Litton to hand over his oars. It's an arrangement that will force Litton to take a backseat just as the action gets good—something that cuts directly against his grain. Over the years, Litton has won his share of victories and also tasted some bitter defeats; but in conservation battles and on the river, he has held steadfastly to the idea that you never compromise and never surrender.

"People always tell me not to be extreme," Litton declares. " 'Be reasonable!' they say. But I never felt it did any good to be reasonable about anything in conservation, because what you give away will never come back—ever. When it comes to saving wilderness, we can't be extreme enough. To compromise is to lose."

For a man like Litton, relinquishing control is an onerous thing. "Try not to write too much about Martin not rowing all the rapids," Tim whispers to me as the boats are being loaded. "This is the stuff that just breaks his heart."

When the last of the drybags are finally stowed, Bronco gives the word and we shove off. As we drift downstream, the cliffs soar upward in a layered tapestry of pastels: pinkish limestone, buff-colored sandstone, and deep-red shale. The combination contrasts well with the brightly painted hulls of the dories.

Along with their colors, the most noteworthy features of these boats are their sharply pointed bows and sterns and their "rocker"—that is, the way their bottoms flare up quickly at the front and back. The design enables a dory to ride dry in all but the roughest water and to pivot with extraordinary quickness, because only part of the hull is touching water at any moment.

Bronco, Litton, and the other pilots send their 11-foot oars planing through the water with smooth, powerful strokes. As the blades emerge at the end of each stroke, the boatmen rotate their wrists with a subtle snap—a technique known as "feathering," which turns the blades parallel to the river's surface and sends droplets flicking off the ends, flashing in the canyon light. The rhythm is crisp, silent, precise.

Feather . . . flick . . . flash . . .

Breaking the water into V-shaped ripples, the dories achieve a visual alchemy seen nowhere else. They appear to be suspended partly on the surface of the river and partly—through a trick of rocker and the magic of their radiance—on the air itself.

We won't see a horizon line again until we emerge from the canyon, in three weeks.

Page:

•	Subscribe to Outside and get a FREE Gift!

•	Give the gift of Outside Magazine!

•	Subscribe to Outside Online's free weekly e-mail newsletter featuring gear reviews, fitness advice, galleries, podcasts, and more.