Steve
Kelley '94J.D.
The ex-surfer in me relished the adventure: six days straight
of dancing with the Colorado River, at times a slow waltz, at
times a passionate tango and at times a violent slam dance. It's
a beautiful, exhilarating romance. And here, deep within the Grand
Canyon's impossibly beautiful colored layers, all my senses were
flooded with the majesty of God's genius.
Our tour group camped on the river shore each night, the weather
so perfect we slept without tents, often atop our sleeping bags.
At some point each night the moon would make its way toward the
canyon's narrow opening, first lighting up the walls of the canyon
as if a blueish daybreak were on its way. Then the moon would
appear directly overhead in the early morning hours, so bright
that we would be startled awake, startled at the juxtaposition
of power, beauty, majesty and glory. This surely was what heaven
must be like.
Each morning we would break camp with a remarkable breakfast
of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and fruit. Then we would load the
boats, tying everything securely in its place and anticipating
the raging moments just as eagerly as the periodic slack waters.
The 95-degree sun would dry the 65-degree water that had drenched
us moments before. As we traveled downriver, the canyon walls
climbed ever higher, revealing new layers with new colors.
The water was low that year, exposing rocks and shoreline that
even our seasoned river guides had never navigated. Some of the
more notorious rapids were so worrisome that the guides would
stop the boats, scurry up the rock walls near the rapids and debate
the best (and sometimes only) technique for navigating the churning
white water. Those of us who eavesdropped heard phrases like,
"but look at that boulder in the middle there" and "I don't know,
this looks impossible."
The typical rating system for white water has a scale of one
to six. Six is the most dangerous. On the Colorado, the ratings
go to 10. A 10 rating at the Grand Canyon is the worst of the
sixes elsewhere. By the sixth day, we had successfully navigated
three sets of rapids rated at 10 and a number of rapids rated
eight or higher. But on that day, we arrived at the worst of the
10s. Still, we were excited about this latest challenge. Our guides
stopped us and plotted their strategy from the rock walls bordering
the river.
Finally, we climbed aboard our boats. Our team was in the smallest
boat, the paddle boat, the most unstable of all. We had been handpicked
by our guide because in the prior five days we had exhibited the
most cohesion. Other teams were in larger, more stable boats.
Our team numbered seven, including our guide, Lara, a powerful
ex-gymnast who, we were convinced, could scale the vertical canyon
walls with her fingertips.
We wore thin flotation jackets. Each of us held a single-sided
plastic oar. We sat high on the edge of the inflatable raft, three
on each side. Lara was centered at the rear, using her oar as
a rudder. No one was strapped in. The only restraint was whatever
leverage we could create with the toes of one foot tucked under
piles of fixed gear. No helmets.
As we floated toward the steep downhill rapids, Lara listed
all the contingencies. She had to yell to be heard above the roar
of the river. "If I say 'hard reverse,' we can't have a moment's
delay. Everyone needs to listen to me and stay calm. We'll be
headed straight for a large boulder in the middle of the river,
and just before we get there we'll slide off to the left. I don't
want to get too close to the rock because there's a whirlpool
on the other side. Let's practice a few strokes. Hard right! Good.
Hard left! Perfect. Now hard reverse! Okay, let's straighten it
out."
We could see the top of the rapids and nothing else because
the descent was so steep. Fifty feet from the top of the drop-off,
Lara screamed, "Everyone select a strap to grab if I yell 'hold
on!' and if I say that, do nothing else but grab it!" We'd never
heard that instruction before.
As we hit the top of the rapids, the front of the inflatable
folded over the ledge. I thought we were stopped on a rock. Then
we went hurtling down a steep incline directly toward a huge boulder.
"HARD REVERSE!" I paddled twice in reverse. "HARD LEFT!" Three
more strokes. The raft listed steeply away from the rock, twisting
sideways. Lara's voice exploded, "HARD FORWARD!" just as my side
of the raft lifted out of the water, nearly vertical now. A 6-foot
wave of water crashed into the low side of the boat. Without warning,
the vertical raft slammed back to the water. We were heading for
the steep edge of the whirlpool.
Another wave lifted my side of the raft. Again my oar lost contact
with the water, leaving me waving at air. Just as suddenly, the
entire raft fell the other way, with my side now the lowest side
tumbling down the wall of water into the whirlpool. A wave of
water smashed me from behind. I was airborne, heading straight
for the vortex of the whirlpool. I heard Lara shout "HANG ON!"
as I plunged into the water. The last thing I saw was Lara falling
in just behind me. I had the briefest moment to realize that if
she had fallen out, the boat was in serious trouble.
I was pulled underwater, spinning as if in a washing machine.
I bounced off rocks and quickly lost sense of where the surface
was. I didn't know how deep I was. I didn't know where the raft
was. All I knew was that if I didn't surface soon, I would black
out from lack of air. And I remembered one of the first rules
they taught us: If you end up in the river, do not extend your
legs because if your foot gets caught between the rocks on the
bottom, the flow of water can keep you permanently under the surface.
So I stayed in a ball, spinning out of control in the whirlpool.
Realizing I had no remaining oxygen in my lungs, I thought I
had nothing to lose by breaking the rule. I extended one leg,
hoping it would reduce the spinning and let me at least see the
surface. Nearly immediately, I was propelled out of the whirlpool
and downriver. I saw the surface and reached for it, my head finally
finding daylight. Trying to take a deep breath, I was hit by another
wave. I got a mouthful of water and was sent under once again.
I worried about rocks. I worried about getting my foot caught
on the bottom. I worried about where I would get some air in the
next second before passing out. Worst of all, it struck me that
Wendy, my wife, might be in trouble. I needed to get to the surface
and stay there. Now.
I emerged once again and, exhausted, decided to lie flat on
my back with my feet downriver. I had no energy to do anything
else. I was hurtling down the river between all the half-submerged
rocks in a state of semiconsciousness.
Then I heard the screaming. One of our boats was already downriver,
hugging the bordering rock wall. I could barely hear someone yelling
above the growl of the river, "Swim! Swim! Over here!" When I
raised my head I saw them, waiting against the wall off to my
side, just above the next set of perilous rapids. If I didn't
make it to that raft, I would have to endure an entire rapids
once again. I knew I could not survive that. I tried to swim,
but the current was still pushing me directly toward the mouth
of the next rapids. The raft had been pushed out into the current
to try to intercept me, but I knew I would miss them. I thrashed
harder.
The raft was nearer now, but I slipped past it and all the outstretched
arms. Then someone extended a belt. I reached for it in one last
desperate lunge, my fingers grabbing a small purchase. Everyone
in the raft pulled on the belt and finally seized my arms and
pulled me in. I landed with a splash in the bottom of the water-filled
raft. Just as suddenly, we hit the next set of rapids.
At the bottom of the rapids, the river was calm. We were the
first boat through, and I kept looking for the paddle boat to
see if my team was safe. When the paddle boat shot through those
rapids, the first thing I saw was everyone hunched over in utter
exhaustion. I counted the backs. Everyone was there, including
my wife and Lara, who had grabbed a strap with her trailing hand
even as she struck the water. Her hand was badly gashed, but she
was able to stick with her boat. My wife stood and yelled across
the river, "We don't have enough life insurance for this!" Then
I noticed that she and the rest of the team were crying with relief.
I had some enormous bruises and a gash on my thigh from bouncing
off the rocks but no permanent damage. It turns out I had been
in the frigid, raging river for more than three minutes and underwater
for most of that time.
At our camp that night, I found Mick, the river guide of the
boat that rescued me, standing alone in the dark. He was a gruff
man who only tolerated people because it allowed him to be with
his true love, the river. I extended my hand and thanked him for
saving my life. He stared at me for a moment, then said matter-of-factly,
"You were never in danger."
The rest of that evening, everyone else showered me with compassion
and concern. The event was the one truly unifying moment of the
trip, and the connections we forged endure to this day, despite
our various geographic locations and vocations.
The next day was our last. I had a newfound respect for the
power of the river and how fragile we are. To my surprise, I also
discovered that more than the overwhelming glory and majesty of
one of God's most imposing and impressive works of creation, it
is the spirit, power and finesse of mankind that endures as his
most complex and compelling work.
* * *
Steve Kelley, a partner in a Seattle law firm, specializes in
corporate and securities law.
