Rafting the Canyon - Part 1

I turned both ankles at about mile 2 of the seven mile hike down the Bright Angel trail into Grand Canyon.  Eric had gone ahead, bent on a mission to see Phantom Ranch, so the helping hands that got me up again were those of relative strangers.  These were some of the people with whom we would spend the next 9 days on the Colorado river.

The pain as I stood up was intense.  But I was pretty sure that neither ankle had sprained, although thoughts about how I would cope getting on and off boats in the sometimes harsh environment of the Canyon over the next few days were scudding through my head as I reassured everyone that I was fine.  At the next rest stop, I gulped down a couple of ibuprofen, again proffered by one of my walking companions. And while I set no records, I was proud to be the first woman of the group down at the beach, despite the mishap.

There's nothing like a rafting trip for getting to know folk.  You eat, camp, raft and hike together.  You bathe in the river, drink from the river (the water goes through a filtration process) and you pee in the river.  It's surprising how quickly this becomes normal - although it would be less than the truth to say it ever becomes comfortable.  Private time is a non-existent concept.  If you don't like someone, it's hard to escape them entirely, given the group dynamic.  Your only option is to watch closely to see which boat they elect to travel in each morning, and pick another.

If this sounds like a recipe for disaster (or perhaps for a new sort of no-holds-barred reality TV show), then to some extent you have the right picture.  People of all ages, from different geographies, political backgrounds and religious perspectives are thrown into five boats eighteen feet long and have to make do.  Did I mention that it costs thousands of dollars to do this?

And yet it is a self-selecting group.  Everyone traveling on the trip we just took knew that they wanted to see America's most spectacular natural wonder.  For some, it was a new variety of outdoorsy vacation.  For others, an item to be checked off  their bucket list.  For most, whatever their original motivation in going, it became the trip of a lifetime as we ran rapids through nearly a billion years of geologic history.
 
The Canyon is also a great leveler.  Money, possessions and stuff don't mean much down there.  Helping unload the boat, lending someone an arm to climb over a rock and slicing up onions for dinner become far more important.  No-one is interested in your temperature controlled wine vault in an environment where a beer chilled by the river feels like the best thing you ever drank at the end of each day. 

That first evening, as my ankles swelled up to tennis ball size, I started to benefit from the shared knowledge of our new community.  The guides recommended "icing" my ankles in the 50 degree water of the Colorado.  An energy healer worked her magic on my right foot, which proceeded to heal at a rapid pace. (The left one is still swollen 10 days later).  And I took a dubious combo of ibuprofen and boxed red wine as a sleep aid.



Each year, some five million visitors marvel at a small portion of the Grand Canyon from the rim.  We were privileged to be part of the 25,000 or so who see the Canyon from the river.
I'm not sure if the supermom from Colorado, or the businessman from Georgia or the couple from Florida will ever return to raft Grand Canyon again.  But I know we will.  One of the guides on our trip put it succinctly: "I'm an addict" she said. 

There are worse vices.

Forgive us our Trespasses

Is it trespass, I wonder, to enter land your taxes have supported without authority?  That's what we did on Sunday, when we wantonly bypassed a California sign at Butano State Park, telling us that the park was closed.

As rule-breaking goes, it was a fairly insignificant infraction.  We strolled past the unmanned Ranger hut (normal fee $6).  We would have been happy to hand over the cash, but there was nowhere to leave it.  Feeling somewhat furtive, we continued down the main road, passing a Park Service employee who was toiling away at blowing leaves.  She neither questioned our presence, nor hindered our progress.

We cut off onto a trail which had degraded significantly through six months of disuse, and (presumably) no upkeep.  The banana slugs had taken over.  The redwoods towered over us, unconcerned by the plight of California's inability to balance its books. 

In the hour or so that we spent there, we passed a few other folk who had ignored the inhospitable sign at the entrance.  Curt nods were exchanged - nothing like the normal camaraderie of fellow hikers.  Clearly, we were all worried that the others might be undercover cops or whistleblowers, ready to run us out of the park. 

We passed through Pescadero on our way home.  It's a small town, with a famous inn, Duarte's Tavern, a saloon straight out of a western (with real 19th century heritage), which happens to serve splendid straightforward American fare and fabulous pies.  A slice of ollalieberry pie to the good, we headed home.

It just happened that evening that PBS was showing a special on the life of David Brower: Monumental, in the run up to Earth Day this Thursday.  Brower is probably the most important environmentalist since John Muir, having run campaigns within and without the Sierra Club, most famously ensuring that no further dams would mar the Grand Canyon.  The scale of his achievements is extraordinary.  He was famously unwilling to compromise, which eventually meant that he ran afoul of some of the great organizations (including the Sierra Club) that  he led and served.

His passion to preserve the glorious natural beauty of the American west is the kind of legacy which we should all be lucky enough to leave.  And while I am certain that the great state of California could and should trim some bureaucratic fat, I am just as sure that cutting off access to our natural resources is a lousy way to do it. 

On the Kindness of Strangers

When purchasing patio furniture, most folk don't think about transporting the stuff  from another continent as personal luggage on an airplane.  Usually a quick trip to Home Depot will suffice.  Not for your loyal correspondent.  On my recent trip to Britain, I was captivated by a particularly fetching set of a table, two chairs and a parasol (in Tiffany Blue!) which I saw in John Lewis.

At a mere £89, it was a deal too good to pass up, despite the logistical difficulty of carrying an additional 35lbs of weight to Heathrow, not to mention figuring out how to get the box into my VW Beetle at the other end.

Which is where the decency of a bunch of folk who didn't know me comes in.  From the moment I got to the British Airways check-in area, the good karma started.  

Airlines, as you know, love to gyp you for extra baggage.  But an amused looking BA attendant suggested that I head over to the plastic wrap section and make my two large cardboard boxes one.  She explained that BA charges by piece of luggage (rather than by total weight), so the fewer bits I had, the less it was going to cost me.  I've always wondered who uses the plastic wrap service, but have to confess that I was a very happy customer.  For just £6, my two parcels were magically combined, saving me nearly £40 in extra bag charges.  You've got to admire the current Southwest advertising campaign ("Bags Fly Free" - see example above), which  seems cheesy until you've paid a fortune to check luggage!

Having temporarily disposed of my encumbrances, I decided to reward myself with lunch at Carluccio's (only possible before you go through security in Terminal 5, so leave yourself enough time, foodies, otherwise you will be faced with the usual dismal airport choices).


At San Francisco airport, the box emerged from the oversized luggage area looking somewhat battered.  I soon discovered why.  The customs officer, who initially eyed me with deep suspicion (British accent, American passport with a huge box of "patio furniture" - you can see his point), saw that someone before him had opened the box to ensure that the contents were as stated on the outside.  Now laughing heartily at my dedication to bargain-hunting, he waved me through a fast track line, and I navigated my cart towards the long term parking bus stop.


I wasn't quite there when the bus hoved into view.   Dashing the last few yards, with the box careening dangerously from side to side on the luggage cart, I arrived panting and anxious at the bus.  The days when the driver would help you with luggage appear to have disappeared, and I faced the first real test of my journey.  Could I lift the box the 2 feet up to the bus?  No need.  Two male passengers (who didn't know each other) bounced off the bus and hefted it up for me.  Brilliant.  The only remaining challenge was getting the box into the Bug.

The guys got the box off the bus at the garage, and then disappeared into the distance to retrieve their cars.  But the female parking attendant (yes, the parking attendant!) volunteered to watch the box for me while I collected the Beetle and drove it down to the ground floor.  The two of us hefted it into the back seat (if you've ever seen the trunk of a Beetle or a Mini, you'll understand why), and I attempted to raise the convertible roof.  Which was a trick too far.  Thank God it wasn't raining.


So, wrapping a scarf around my head in Grace Kelly style, I ventured out into the somewhat chilly San Francisco evening, and drove the 90 minutes home along the freeway with the top down and the box firmly in my rear view mirror.  I fancy that I saw a few of my fellow drivers looking at me askance, but I knew that it would all eventually be worthwhile.  After all, I have what I am fairly certain is the only set of this particular style of (FSC certified) patio furniture for approximately 6000 miles.  And a mad story about the kindness of strangers to go with it.