the havasu flash flood of 1984

8/14/2019 The HAVASU FLASH FLOOD of 1984

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THE HAVASU FLASH FLOOD

1984

The clients are tired. They smile and drip, standing ankle deep at the edge of the

water, caressed by the sun. A cocoon of towering red cliffs and shimmering green

cottonwoods rim our iridescent acre of plunge-pool, domed with a sky of indigo. Is this

Mars? Maybe Jupiter? They fumble in daypacks for sandwiches, squirrels scatter.

Wearing nothing but my customary desert costume of shorts, running shoes,

floppy straw hat, full-wrap mirrored sunglasses, and daypack, I consider howling like a

coyote. Instead I concentrate on my own rather crumpled salami sandwich.

My gaze ascends leisurely up the full height of the improbable turquoise waterfall

to where it first arcs over the lip, nearly two hundred feet above. There are a few others

here, non-rafting civilians who have climbed down from the campground above

through a maze of dusty natural caves and steps carved into the vertical cliffs. The route

involves clutching rusty old cables installed ages ago by the local tribesmen, moving

through frozen waterfalls of sculpted orange travertine stalactites. Those who can manage

to speak do so in hushed tones, as if in a cathedral, leaving only the sound of water.

Destiny is at hand.

What the . The words, whispered to myself, desiccate into the dry air. My

smile does the same.

Appearing at the very brink of the falls, an uncanny presence, as yet

unidentifiable. Is it part of the sky? I try to sort things out, like a wolf sniffing the air. A

pressing blackness. Obsidian. Unmistakably monstrous, though I glimpse only its margin.


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My sandwich, still in hand, unconsciously droops to my side. I stand like a statue in a

corner nave, gaze aloft.

A cloud? The question floats in my skull. Whatever it is, my skin tingles. My

lungs suck in one long, deep draught of air. The body prepares itself. The mind has yet to

follow.

This black behemoth is ponderously but surely moving down canyon. Towards

us.

In the Great American Southwestern Desert, July and August are monsoon

season. The towering afternoon thunderheads tumble in, edged brilliant silver and white

in the blinding sun, bellies gray and somber, cast against a sky so painfully blue,

grumbling and striking with flashes of raw electricity between firmament and space.

Their immense atmospheric landscape dwarfs the stony one below. If it rains within your

immediate sphere, the cliffs are painted shiny black or crystalline burgundy or molten

silver, unending ramparts on every side glinting like jewels in the slanting rays of the sun.

After the drama of the rain pouring down, filling the potholes of your senses, a glorious

quality of peace swells, penetrating all space. Pure, unadulterated magic. Moments of

speechless awe for somediscomfort for others. The river turns to chocolate colored

mud, splattering everyone and everythinga slippery mess. A safe path through rapids

becomes difficult to read, obscured and colored all wrong. Bathing is for the intrepid or

desperately stinky.

For me, being in a monsoon in the desert Canyon Country is to be transported


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back to primordial roots, everything washed clean. Catching an elusive flash flood is akin

to discovering buried treasure. Red or black or green waterfalls coalesce and roar down

side canyons that may have been silent for lifetimes. A gift from the Gods. Mud sweeps

everything in its path downstream, that much closer to the sea, swirling and cascading

into oblivion. One must take great care not to join the detritus. Secretly I smile when the

once mighty Colorado, Spanish forred-colored, returns for a time back to its pre-dam

personality. Once the spray settles, debris is left perched in unusual placeshigh in

treetops, jammed in cracks fifty feet and more overhead. People point and wonder at how

that tree got way the hell up there

If hiking a slot canyonthe sky a thin, meandering indigo thread directly

overheadwe boatmen covertly, nervously sniff the air for the telltale fecund smell of

wet earth, for somethingdifferent. Perhaps a peculiar sound where only the flawless

desert silence existed before. Something in your subconscious whispering like a

messenger

The sound of water.

It is, of course, better to sense the whisper well before it becomes a clarion call.

Guides too often tempt fate as it is. Personality trait. Keep an eye out at every bend for a

quick exit route. Watch for a climbable escape crack as you slither between the vertical

walls.

Better yetdont go. Camp high. Keep your gear packed and ready for hasty

gathering, especially your life jacket. Sleep on your boat, one eye open. Clear your senses

with one neat shot of highland single-malt.


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On the evening before we hit Havasu Creek on river trips, during the ritual pre-

hike talk at Last Chance camp, the peeps are told to pack their lunches, watch for

thieving ravens, choose their destination or no destination at allin preparation for the

much anticipated Havasu. This time of year, we also remind them of what to watch out

for in a flash: pay attention to the color of the water, the quality of its sound, its scent.

Maybe the crossings seem deeper, you cant see your feet. Anything at all suspicious

head uphill,fast.

Tie-up ropes of all ages and descriptions are stuffed in the cracks in the cliffs

encircling Havasu eddy, tied around small chockstones, and stained with the brown mud

of innumerable past floods. One or two pitons are hammered into the rock for backup,

and some very old rusty steel rings with bent carabiners. All of these are high off the

water, a story in itself for the observant. The eddy water is clear and blue-green, the

Colorado River darker, colder, flowing swiftly by into a small rapid. At the eddyline

where they mix, swirls of varied colors and temperatures whirlpool towards the river

bottom deep below. Not a place to be unless youre in a boat. Cliff upon tawny cliff

ascend to touch the deepest blue senses can ken. Boats tied to anchors, to each other,

spiderwebs of lines to achieve the common goals of keeping the rafts out of the way of

incoming or outgoing traffic, and of giving people access to and from the rock shelf that

serves for shore. A popular attraction, sometimes the boat count exceeds forty. Boats of

all shapes and sizes, a few big motor rigs, all so tightly packed at the height of the season


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that you could walk across without getting your feet wet. At the head of the cliff-bound

eddy the creek enters through a narrow passage, just a bit too tight for an eighteen-foot

raft. Occasionally cliff jumpers from upstream swim through the notch back to their boats

and a nap in the shade.

I aim for Mooney Falls, roughly a two-and-a-half hour hike, as often as I can.

Less people to watch out for. Usually the bolder, more adventurous ones. More

appreciative, which is, after all, why I do this. They gotta want it.

Plus I get to see Mooney again. I get to swim across its Caribbean-blue pool to

behind the falls, clamber along the rock ledge hidden just under the wave-tossed surface,

the clients following, not quite comprehending why. A hurricane of spray blasting us

back so were barely able to catch our breath. Then were diving through the falls,

turning over on our backs and gazing up at the cascade stretching high above. A rainbow

halo surrounds the brink of the falls, only visible from that exact spot in all the universe.

We then drift, laughing our way back towards the island in the seventy-two degree water.

A religious experience. You have to be ready for magic.

Rowing into Havasu eddy early on the morning of day ten, the ritual begins. Get

the Moonies, the long-hikers, off the boats and on the trail. Theyre psyched, focused,

and a pain in the ass. A guide leads them to negotiate the numerous and confusing ankle-

deep creek crossings. Once theyve left, the others can take their time, relax. The guides

taking the day off are the harbormasters; after everyone finally leaves them alone, they

will dally about, tie the rigs up well. Its a sort of meditation. On this particular early July

morning, there is only one other trip in the eddy, also from AzRA, the same company as


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ours. Theyre on a trip one day ahead of us, but weve caught up. They must be planning

on booking out the next couple of days on the high water.

Im rowing my snout boat on this trip, so I enter the eddy first, tie up at the

mouth, near to where the eddy line marks the boundary between Havasu Creek and the

Colorado River. The others slide into the eddy, tie up to my stern, and string themselves

end to end as my folks slide off the snout. The rigs wrap themselves tight into the eddy,

leaving room for other latecomers to jam in. Lorna, who is taking the day off, is the last

boat to tie up, jamming her raft tight into the hourglass-shaped vertical cliff at the far end

of the eddy, where the creek enters. Nice and quiet there, nobody stepping over her, good

shade all day. I strap up my oars, exchange my flip-flops for tennies, grab my daypack.

Everyone is boat hopping, smiling, preparing for a wonderful day.

Glancing at Dave Edwards, my great big Georgian-Welsh friend, I wave farewell.

He smiles his broad smile and turns his face upwards to the overhanging cliffs over

twenty feet above our heads.

Ever see anyone jump across? he says playfully.

Nope.

I saw Briggs do it once. He shakes his head.

Yeah, right. Six-foot-four and legs like Aspens. Not me. No way! Insane. See ya

later, boyo. Enjoy your day off.

Its a good start. We leave the others fiddling with their packs and beating off the

ravens. Id prepared the troops the night before, keeping them focused on getting out of

the hubbub so we could find our pace, not worry about stragglers. To sweat ourselves


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into the rhythm of moving through the desert. Destination oriented. We can meander

back afterwards, catch what we missed. In oases like Havasu, well scattered and well

hidden within the seemingly desolate landscape, you understood where the Navajo got

their ancient chant Walk In Beauty.

The hike up takes the usual two and a half hours. The clients grow silent as the

place sinks in. Halfway, more or less, we eat a snack, have a drink, and take some photos

at graceful, stair-stepped Beaver Falls. They always want to stop there. But Mooney

beckons. After Beaver, the magic gets wilder, the pace picks up. Everyone else stops at

Beaver. From here on in, its all ours.

Even after seeing it scores of times, Mooney still rocks me. As usual, I make them

stop at a little spring just before we get there, partly to fill up their bottles, partly to

increase the tension one last notch.

Finally able to glimpse our objective, all stop several times at each little

viewpoint, look at each other, back to the falls and cliffs, trying to comprehend.

Impossible. Silence reigns, except for the sound of water. The pace slows, as if not to

disturb something sacred.

As usual, at the pool they drop their daypacks, prepare to eat lunch, fumbling in

their packs as their gazes are drawn upwards.

Hold on, you guys. My little ritual.

Theyre a little confused. After all, were here, aren't we?

Would you like to have a religious experience?


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Um, you guys? Softly, calmly.

All faces instantly alert, concerned. Perhaps they are too used to my exuberance,

noting the abrupt change.

I think maybe we ought to eat as quick as possible, and then get moving back

downstream. I shrug my shoulders, deliberately notlooking at the sky.

Pat, one of two women on the hike, wants more information.

What? Seemingly simple, but I know that tone of voice. Shes not going to let it

go. Nor, on reflection, should she.

I point with my lips, Navajo style, up towards what Ive now decided is either the

blackest, thickest cloud ever imagined, or the apocalypse. All eyes look towards the

menacing black beast peeking over the lip of the falls. All faces, save two, pale. They get

it. Most of em anyway.

Um Pat hesitates. Is that a cloud, or what?

I dont answer directly. All watch the deliberations. I have my professional

mask on. Theres that damnpause thing that always seems to precede something

extraordinary in the offing. Like a chopper in the Canyon, its rarely good news.

Okay. Heres the deal. Thats the darkest damn cloud I think Ive ever seen in

my whole life. Probably raining like Noahs flood somewhere upstream.

As one they stand up, full attention now. In life, some are paralyzed by fear, some

energized. Well soon see.

Closing my eyes, I visualize. Upstream a few miles it is bucketing. Hard. All that

water, volumes and volumes of water, is hitting the hardpan and bedrock, sheeting off


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fast. It tumbles downhill, collecting mud and pebbles, then rocks and chunks of earth,

into the natural creek bed which had minutes before been bone dry. It is an irresistible

forcethe very force that, over the eons, created this entire landscape. It cannot penetrate

the hard earth and rock, and so rushes headlong downhill to hit the springs that form this

perennial creek and mingle with the turquoise water and turn it into gooey, thick red mud.

With endless supply from the heavens, it keeps growing and picking up speed and

relentlessly sweeping everything in its path. At the moment, the in its path part includes

us. Ive been through a number of flash floods before. You learn the signs. This one is

singular. I feel it in my spine.

I glance at some of their faces. Dont panic. Just be focused. Okay? In my way,

I pull my sunglasses down over my nose so they can see my eyes. My voice is dead calm.

They find that somehow scarier.

Dont stop. Listen for a, uh, well, a different sound. Keep looking upstream,

especially at crossings. Watch for a wave. Kinda like a beach surf only red. Sniff the air,

see if it seems muddy. Dont worry if you dont understand what that means. Youll

know it when you smell it. You notice any of those things, run to the highest point you

can. Fast. This is life and death, kids, I shit you not.

Nobody moves. Eyes shift back and forth from my face to the growing cloud,

trying to process the totality of instantaneous and absolute consequence. Theyve seen me

scouting big rapids. The warriors calm, welcoming the contest to come. I mean business.

And you? says Pat.

Replacing my sunglasses, I look down, cross my arms, then raise my face back to

meet hers. I have to think. Im supposed to be sweep. There are some other people here.


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I can catch you pretty quick. I need a minute or two to gather my thoughts.

The sweep is the last, the one who has the repair and first aid, the one whos

responsible, on river or trail, for making sure nobody is left behind, all are safe,

everythings copasetic so the trip leader can concentrate on leading. I absolutely love

being sweep, reliable backup, having time to smell the rocks. Legally, guides are only

responsible for the people in their own group. Morally is a different question.

As one, they rise in silence, pack and leave. I notice some of the sandwiches have

been discreetly put away, untouched.

I remain, pondering. Climb the cables up to the campground and warn them?

Mostly these folks, freshly hiked in from their cars and unfamiliar with the sure

consequences of Nature in the Grand Canyon, wont believe me anyway. Run past my

small group and warn everybody on the rafts downstream? Nope. Im sweep. Anything

happens to one of my guys if Im ahead, theyre screwed. Surely everyone downstream

has noticed that cloud? Itll hit me first, however big it is.

My right eyebrow rises.

This is going to happen, period. If I could be in two places at once, herding them

along and keeping well back to gauge and keep watch, I would.I love running this trail. I

usually give my folks about twenty minutes lead and dont catch up to them until just

before the waiting rafts.Im in no rush to catch up just yet.

While caught up in these thoughts, I stroll up to each little group of swimmers and

point to the cloud, explaining theres going to be a flood and they should probably get

back to their camps and warn their friends, move their gear. They look at me like Im


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some nut on the freeway, which is no more than I expect. Ive done my best, and I leave

them to their fates.

An inner clock has struck, compelling me to take off running downstream, free

and clear of doubt. Glancing briefly over my shoulder from time to time whilst

maneuvering amongst the grape vines and tangled trees, rocks, and crossings, I perceive

The Cloud stalking slowly, inexorably down canyon, consuming the sky as if starving.

There is unexpected color and movement just ahead. A bit stunned, I catch up with Bill

and Ted, two of my six. Ive only been going five minutes.

These two came together. Their impatience with the rest of us sheep is palpable.

They dont need no one telling them what to do.

Theyve left the track and are standing waist deep in the creek. Lovely spot, nice

little pool. Slowing to a trot, coming to an unsure halt poolside, I consider. Theyre hot

and tired, stopped for a dip. No harmin another world. I glance up. The brute is closing

in. Just upstream, all is obscured by a slanting grayish blur.

Be polite now.

What are you guys doing?

Its hot, Bill says, wiping his brow with a wet bandana.

Were tired, says Ted.

And the others?

They went on ahead.

That parts good news. I point upstream. See that? Thats rain. Lots and lots of

rain. I emphasize every word, failing to keep sarcasm at bay. Very soon a really, really

big flash flood is gonna come down on us. You get that? My arms are crossed in front of


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my chest; my sunglasses remain in place. Did you hear me when I said you had to keep

moving downstream?

They nod, ruffled.

Kinda like now.

I watch them disappear around a bend. A glance upstream, gauging the advance, a

glance around at the tranquility, soon to be rent. I again sort out all the alternatives,

possibilities. Part of this is just procrastination. I dont like them much. Id rather catch

them than hang with them. Besides, the imminent danger is so sublime.

I give them another fifteen minutes, for fun making a bet with myself the exact

point that we all four, they and I and the cloud, will meet. I find myself running once

again, my mind a welcome blank. Nothing left to do but follow this chosen path.

The trail whirs by, taking my focus. The buzz of a cicada, the flurry of two birds

chasing each other into a tangle of leaves, the warm odor of riotous vegetation.

Everything. My feet rhythmically pad the earth, joining my heart and breath, providing a

beat to the rising symphony. Everything is in readiness.

Bill and Ted stand at the edge of the cliff, cameras pointed at Beaver Falls. They

are oblivious, ignoring my arrival. On cue, as if a curtain were falling, the first heavy

raindrops pelt the dust at our feet. Then hail the size of marblescats eye marbles, the

big ones, like we used to play with back in Chicagobombard us, sounding like

applause.

Ouch. Ooooch. Ow!

Bill is bald. No hat. The hail is hitting him on the head and it hurts. He squints at


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me through the instantaneous maelstrom, looking miserable. Smiling, I reach for my

straw hat and offer it to him. He grabs it and jams it down, scowling. He and Ted try, in

vain, to thwart the hail and rain with canted arms and elbows, scrambling in circles and

crying out, looking like monkeys dancing. Then, form and color just under the big

cottonwood tree down there at the base of the falls catches my eye. Squinting against the

hail and rain, tying a bandana around my head, I can just make out the outsized form of

the baggage boatman from the other trip. Hes curled up on his side in the luxuriant grass,

under the thick leaves, by all appearances asleep. Shouting in this racket is useless. Ill

have to downclimb the cliffs and get closer.

Hey! What are we supposed to do now?!

I turn towards my guys. Deep breath.

Well. Looks like Im gonna have to get Steve out of bed. pointing to the shape

down below, just visible through the torrent.How on earth is he sleeping through this?

Damn big tree.

I was planning on stickin with you guys from here on, but plans have changed.

I like this option even less than they do. Just head down the switchbacks and cross the

creek. And could you do me a favor, please? Could you just keep moving? Sullenly,

they move off. I call to their backs, Remember what I told you about flash floods! Then

I turn to get Steve.

Climbing fast, I arrive under the shelter of the tree in minutes. Already soaked, I

shake his arm, and in an instant hes bolt upright, looking around, trying to place himself.

Steve is a big guy, like a walrus. He was a paying client for several years running, until

finally the owner gave him an unpaid baggage boat to row.


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STEVE, I yell, ITS GONNA FLASH BIG TIMECOME ON! WE GOTTA

GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! The falls adds to the cacophony.

He responds, MOLEYS GONE HIKING. HE TOLD ME TO WAIT UP.

Moley, another AzRA boatman, is working the other trip. Hes sweep for their

group.

I say, ILL WAIT FOR MOLEY. YOU GO ON AHEAD!

NO, I PROMISED ID WAIT. SO IM WAITING.

WHERED HE GO?

I DUNNO. SOMETHING ABOUT A SCARY PUPPET. BEAVER MAN OR

SOMETHING.

HOW LONG AGO?

A shrug. MUSTA FELL ASLEEP. Were both looking upwards, scanning the

cliffs, hoping.

Moleys head is screwed on good. Hell figure it out. Think fast. This guys

gonna be stubborn.

OKAY. OKAY. CLIMB A BIT UP THE CLIFFS WITH ME. YOU CAN STAY

UNDER AN OVERHANG AND WAIT FOR HIM THERE. OKAY?

He consents. I plunk him down in a safe spot and take off, on a mission.

Two minutes down the track I nearly run right over the top of Frick and Frack,

sheltering under a tiny overhang on the trail. Time is running out. So is my patience.

What the hell is wrong with you two?!

They are peeved, soggy, and now, at long last, apparently scared.

It hurts!


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What are you talking about?

The hail!

Okay. Fine. I take a deep breath. My sunglasses are off, my arms fold

themselves across my chest.

Listen to me.

Yep. Listening.

Im supposed to be sweep and now Ive left someone behind.

The hail stops, the rain pours on. A garnet red waterfall bursts over the cliff a

thousand feet above, cascades from ledge to ledge like a toy Slinky, and finally plunges

into our creek not thirty feet away. Another, then another, all along the scarp. The creek

turns pink, as if the water were mixed with blood. Yet it remains steady. Here, anyway.

This will change presently.

Oh! Oh my God!

Look you two. Im gonna stay here for a few minutes. I gotta think. Then Im

gonna come after you. Weve got three more crossings to make.

I thought there was four!

All we need to make is three. We can get back to the boats from the wrong side

if we need to.

They stand there. The creek alters color, chameleon-like, pink to red. The rowdy

rain, the rising creek, a hundred waterfalls, the wind, all combine into a deafening

crescendo.

If I catch you two again, you wont have to worry about no flash flood. Cuz Im

gonna fucking kill you myself.


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Moleyace river guide, trustworthy, capable, savvy, bald. We shared the high

water last year, him playing his fiddle at the Crystal concert. No worries there. I stand

protected by the tiny overhang, re-assessing, sorting, scoping. Really just an excuse to

observe the dazzling show. Red-graphite waterfalls pour over thousand foot cliffs far and

wide. Pour from every little notch in the Redwall, pour upstream and downstream, both

sides. There is so much energy its hard to breathe. The river is starting to rise. A few

inches, just a teaser. Not thick red mud yet, but.

Time congeals. I am running. One knee-deep crossing tells me what I need to

know: the water is higher, maybe only by a foot or so. And its still coming. Steady.

Another crossing. One more and home free. Half mile, more or less. Waterfalls and rain.

The sound of water, of feet splashing, of breath, blend into a rhythm. My mind wanders,

idiotically, to that Superman movie a few years back, the part where he outruns the train

to cross the tracks.

Top speed and cackling madly, now. The excitement is like a drug.I wonder how

fast a flash flood wave moves?

Faster than, say, a man can run?

I howl. The sound is not as much drowned by the racket as absorbed by it, melded

with it. I shake my head, demanding sanity, but it does not oblige. The conductor turns

the page, moves his baton. I suck in my breath at the climax of the holy symphony.

ThenThe Sound. Exultant roar of a lioness, triumphant crowd after a goal.

More attitude than simply vibrations in air, it compels me to turn, still running. A

massive, surreal wave, foaming and single-minded and animate, appears a hundred yards


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upstream. The smell of earth and rich fecundity. It is freakishly slow, frothing and filling

the space behind huge boulders, tumbling over drops, eddying, then rushing off again.

Deliberate. Purposeful. The water just behind the crest improbably rushes at twenty miles

an houran optical illusion. The laws of physics seem to require it to catch up and

overtake the wave, but it behaves itself and does not. My head jerks from trail to wave

and back again, gauging speeds.

Yup. No doubt about it. Im beating it.

No fuckin way dont even think about itWoohooooooooo!

I will play with it just so much, then head uphill and watch it go by. I swear.

The crossing comes into view a hundred yards downstream.

Bill and Ted stand midstream, backs to the wave, rinsing their fucking bandanas.

SHIT! Puffpuff. GET UP THE BANK!

My legs cannot move any faster. I glance at the approaching wave, thundering

like a freight train. The path is set.

GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK! Glance

back. FLASH FLOOD! Seventy-five yards, fifty, glance back.

FLASH FLOOOOOOOD!

Startled, they turn and stareat me, not at their approaching doom. They start

towards the far bank. Too slow. I hyperventilate, oxygenating my blood. Twenty yards.

My eyes take in every rock, where my last steps must fall, where my surface dive will

land. Last glance upstream. Itll be close.

In mid-flight, just before entering the muddy blackness, I inhale and flick my

head rightwards for one last glimpse. Then Im underwateroh, the silence!and plowing


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hard before the image gels, and it is this: An explosion of red mud like a supernova

overwhelms the ten foot high virgin white limestone boulder thirty feet upstream.

I have five seconds.

My feet hit the river bottom running, like in the molasses of a silent dream, my

arms drag mud wildly, propelling me forward. Unexpectedly, air once again touches my

face, enters my lungs, the roar greets my ears. My guys stand facing me at what is just

now the bank, but in two seconds will be ten feet deep and ruthless. Their faces are

contorted, confused and angry. I grab their collars, feet scrambling to gain purchase,

leaning hard into them, and shove. The moment stretches far into my future, my past. Into

my story. Puppets and puppeteer. Not me and them; Life and not life.

They are flung backwards into a thicket of ash trees. I wrap my arms around the

nearest, high as I can reach, no time to choose for stoutness. The wave takes my legs out

from under me.

My tree holds.

Oh.wow! So thats what you meant by a flash flood!

A huge cottonwood tree, still alive and whole, leaves and branches rolling over

and over, ponderously tumbles by. I gain my footing, glancing over my shoulder. The log

footbridge from Supai Village floats by. Supai Village is ten miles upstream.

Far downstream, Jane, a middle-aged client with ample breasts, sits on a rock


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midstream, a few hundred yards upstream of the boats in the eddy. She has stopped at the

first creek crossing, just at the brink of a set of three stepped waterfalls, dropping about

fifteen feet. Very pretty spot. She faces downstream, concentrating on removing pebbles

from her sneakers. She stops, knots her brow, turns to see what it is that has tapped her on

the shoulderand is slapped off her perch like an insect, into muddy blackness.

Swept over the falls, violently tumbling over rocks and river bottom, she prays.

Back at the eddy, Lorna is napping on her raft, chocked into the hourglass. The

wave will hit her, first. Sharon, Shay, is on her raft, nearest the Colorado River at the

far end of the string. Unfortunately, shes also on the upstream side of the eddy, farthest

from an escape ledge.

Barry Lopez writes about the Native Eye, how an Eskimo paddling a skin kayak

across miles of featureless Arctic oceanno land in sight, family members tucked inside

and utterly dependantmust focus on moving his kayak towards his landing. Not tunnel

vision. Crystal clear, absolute attention. Yet, the merest change in the familiar salty

breeze, a wisp of cloud on the horizon, a flock of birds wheeling, and muscles and mind

become taut, alert, calculating. Ready.

The canyon narrows as it enters the last few hundred yards above the boats; the

wave responds by getting bigger. Muchbigger. Shays glance is drawn upstream.

Something is speaking to her. There is a presence over Lornas head. Towering, dark,

alive. The wave of mud approaches.

FLASH FLOOOOOOOD!!!

Edwards will later swear he saw Lorna leap from a dead sleep and in an instant fly


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over the boats to safety at the far end of a dozen rafts, feet never touching rubber or

frame. Fortunate, since The Wave engulfs her boat, straining, then snapping its lines and

wrapping it sideways into the next, then both into the next, and so on. The lines thrum

and stretch and snap, anchors pop out of cracks. Metal D-rings on the rubber rafts

disintegrate, ripping a hole in one, causing it to deflate and fold in half underneath itself.

The rafts are now wildly bucking in the raging tsunami. Shay screams over the

roar, WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO?

CUT EM! echoes from the cliffs.

For us guides, an unconscious hand-slap to the chestjust checkingis second

nature in times of need Yep, her life jacket is on. (Why? Who can say. Nobody ever

wears a life jacket when hanging out in the eddy.) She draws the knife from its scabbard

and starts cutting lines. The whole flotilla is being ripped and contorted, held in the brunt

of the torrent, but as lines are cut, it swings out, pendulums from my snout still tied to the

far ledge. There guides gawk and scramble, grabbing life jackets and throw lines. Shay

slithers and leaps across the lurching mass and gladly joins them. The boats now strain in

the raging current of the Colorado at the head of a rapid running at forty-five thousand

cubic feet per second. Off my single bowline.

Which is taut, worried to the point of rupture. The guides stand, absorbing the

outrageous scene, trying to wrap their heads around it. As always, some react swiftly,

with poise and sureness; others follow.

The rope will only hold for a second or two. Lowry, strong, reliable, taking it all

in like a cat, leaps onto the closest boat, followed by two young acolytes. The boys had

been practicing the whole trip, clients observing their mentorhow he rowed, his stature


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amongst his peers. They crab crawl and clamber over the surging tubes and flailing oars

to reach the three farthest outlying boats. Dave cuts the lines, yelling at the boys to grab

rowing seats and hold on tight. The impatient current snaps the lines, releasing the rafts,

all that pent up energy jerking them fiercely. They grab the oars and madly row their craft

into the only existing eddy, against the cliffs below.

Suzanne also leaps. Shes wearing her own familiar costume of flops, Navajo

style print skirt and lacey blouse, her signature southwestern turquoise necklaces, rings,

and bracelets, all highlighted by her flaming jumble of red hair. As Lowry cuts his boats

free, she severs the straining line closest to her. A jumble of four boats, all fully loaded

and one half-deflated, disappears around the corner, containing one determined woman.

This leaves just my snout and two other rafts, plus a clutch of guides feeling like

cowboys on foot.

Dave Edwards stares downstream, worried about Suzy. His back is to the eddy.

There is a shout.

BOD-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Joel points. Time stretches, as it will. In one fluid motion, Dave turns. A shadow

below the waters surface resolves into an image: swirling hair. It is sensuous, a siren

calling him, hair framing the silhouette of a face with haunting eyes. He dives, two

hundred and fifty muscular pounds of resolve.

On shore, eyes scan the water for an anxious second. Two seconds. Three. Four.

Two spluttering faces appear, noses just above the surface. Dave has Jane in the

classic life-saving holdturned away from him so she cannot pin his arms, his right arm

underneath her armpit and across her chest, clasping his left hand with his right, locked in


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solid. Hes wearing his worn, old, lightweight, comfortable (and useless) lifejacket. They

get air infrequently, heads submerging through each wave. Seconds count.

Joel is lithea runner. His track is an uneven rock ledge. He wears flip-flops; he

is encumbered by a life jacket and has a throw bag in his hands. Nonetheless, he hurtles

over the terrain, pacing the swimmers, staring into Daves eyes. Waiting. They careen

two feet away, but they might as well be on the moon.

In an instant itll be too late.

In between repeated submersions, Dave spits. Then, with absolute clarity, says,

Hit me in the face, boyo

Whap! The rope appears, right between their heads. Dave, briefly releasing his

left hand, stuffs the rope deep between his molars, clamps down, then locks Jane back in.

They are traveling at ten miles an hour.

Others reach Joel and hold onto him, ready for the pull. One chance, one eddy.

All comprehend the need for slack, a pendulum to take some of the force. Once they hit

that eddy the rope will rip out Daves teeth and theyre goners.

Graceful as penguins, they swing in, are gathered ashore, and collapse into

welcoming arms.

Later, in her soft southern accent, Jane will tell the tale. I knew I was going to

drown in that wave. Then, God answered my prayers. He grabbed me by my breasts, and

tugged me to the surface so I could breathe. Then I was on the crest of this huge red

wave, and I was headed into a narrow notch just choked with boats. Then, this tiny figure

I just know it was an angelflew over the boats. It gave me hope. I hit the first boat


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and went back underwater. It was just black. I bumped and banged underneath those

boats, and I just knew that was gonna be it. Then I felt myself swirling around and the

water got really cold and I could almost see light. Well, I knew what that was. The

Colorado. I was prepared to meet my maker, but this huge shadow appeared above me

another angeland tackled me so hard it hurt. But that pain was a blessing, and I wasnt

gonna let go, no sir!

Downstream, Suzy gets to work. There is no urgency. She unties, then reties her

rafts end to end, freeing her to row the tail end one. She hauls one rafts deflated half up

and over itself and ties it to the frame so it doesnt drag in the water. She then loops all

the spare lines into one nice, long coil on the back deck and aims for shore.

She attempts eddy after eddy. Each time her rear boat hits the undisciplined and

powerful eddy line, the seventy-foot rig uncontrollably spirals back out into the current.

Suzanne is strong and sure. She reads current better than anyone. As a woman used to

working in a mans worldand used to using finesse and skill, having a certain bond

with riversshe reprocesses. Considers. Drinks some water. Decides. She knows the

river well and can visualize a place downstream on the left where a slow current will

bring her near some low cliffs without an eddy. She hopes the cliffs are mostly

underwater, presenting a sloping shore.

Her destination appears downstream. Committing utterly on a singular day of

utter commitment, she ships her oars as she nears shore, gathers the coils of line, leaps off

the boats moving at eight miles an hour, and starts running in her flops and skirt amidst

the desert scrub. Red hair flies. Desperately she seeks something solid to tie to. Nada. Not


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a thing. Fragile cacti and small, loose rocks. Coils whip out of her arms, whoop, whoop,

whoop, rapidly diminishing her options. The flotilla keeps moving relentlessly

downstream.

There is a solitary large boulder at the terminus of the bench. She has tied a

monkeys fista large, round final knot at the end of the rope. The last coil lurches out

of her arms. She grabs the monkeys fist and jams it into the lone crack in that lone rock

as the boats pull it taut. The force wedges her hand into the sharply eroded limestone. The

boats settle, freeing her now torn hand.

There is now time to tend to her wound, cover the exposed raw meat, rummage

for food. She tethers the boats to shore in a spiders web of rope, makes a sandwich. Itll

be a while before others arrive.

Back upstream, the rain has stopped. Im shaking with coldthat, and the shock

of having death sit on my shoulder once again, only to leave me behind, once again.

Sodden with mud, I stand amidst the trees, leaning against one. Steady now. It is good to

feel the rough bark. Something solid.

Responsibilities. Moley and Steve are upstream. The Colorado is only a short hike

away, maybe a mile and a half or so. Where are the others? For sure someones been

swept away and drowned. Bill is shivering. I give him my rain jacket. He now has that

and my hat, with never a thank you. I must keep moving or Ill get hypothermic. My gut

aches for the others, but we have to get moving. I cannot, however, leave Bill and Ted


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(much as Id like to).

The trail is now in the river, underneath all that liquefied mud. Downstream there

will be parts of it exposed higher up on the bank, but for now we must crawl through

Catclaw Acacia and Mesquite, small trees lovely to the eyefrom a distance. After all,

desert plants must defend themselvesnot much to eat in these parts. Catclaw is rather

self-explanatory. The thorns on the mesquite are different, long and straight, kinda like

IV needles. Our only route is choked with these. Waist height and below, prickly pear

and fishhook cacti litter the ground. Blood leaks from countless scratches and holes, like

weve been flailing ourselves in some religious swoon. I ignore Bill and Teds loud and

constant complaints until they finally shut up.

Finally, we reach a section of trail above the flood. It has abated a couple of feet

in the past half-hour. Were getting strangely used to the clamor and feverish motion of

red-brown water. Fish flop in puddles along the recently exposed trail. I mindlessly scoop

them sideways back into the river with a flick of my foot as I hike; they bounce and

disappear in a splash.

We round a corner and stumble into a small knot of clients. Huddled and cold,

some sit on rocks, some stand. The men cradle their heads in their palms, staring at their

feet. The women softly whimper, arms crossed for warmth or around their companions

shoulders, comforting each other.

Oh! Its a guide! Jeffe! Thank God! All faces look to me.

Is everyone okay? Has anyone been washed away?

No. Everyones fine. But we were stuck! Were cold and wet! And we cant get

back to the boats!


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weirdly dressed and posed like mannequinshalf bent, limbs akimbo, mouths half open,

a river fashion display.

Decades later, Dave, hand clutching my arm as if he were there once more, would

describe the mood thusly: Boyoit wasChilling.

Voices cannot overcome the bellow of rapids. Sometimes communication

between one boat and another, or a boat and a swimmer, is critical, so river guides use

hand signals. A pat on the head means OK. Its a question-response sort of thing. One

pat deserving another.

Clearly, theyre expecting bad news. Unable to help myself, I smile, pat my head,

and point with my other thumb over my shoulder behind me. They glance at each other,

then back to me. One pats his head back, face puzzled, slowly rising from his crouch.

Faces turn towards each other, mouths stir.

One by one, my herd tops the rise. The guides begin counting on their fingers.

Someone produces a roster. Rob, pen in hand, checks off names. Smiles appear, backs are

slapped.

Presently, Moley materializes, bringing up the rear. All accounted for.

Soon, we are yelling across the abyss. We cannot make ourselves understood over

the roar of the floodwaters in the final narrows. Joel points downstream towards the boat

eddy. Oh. Right. We move off in that direction.

Where a dozen boats were, there are threemy snout and two eighteen footers,

swaying in the current.

Waitll you hear, someone shouts.

Waitll YOUhear, I respond.


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Reserves are waning. People are wet and tired and hungry. It is getting late. Time

for stories later; this one is still taking shape. Following a brief discussion, Moley and I

set up our end of a Tyrolean Traverse. Joel, like myself an ex-Outward Bound instructor,

sets up the far side. We swap stories as we work, omitting certain delicate details,

watched by curious and anxious clients. There are three more rafts in the eddy

downstream, plus a motor rig that happened by. Theyd like to get going, get their own

passengers to camp and fed. Tuckup camp is ten miles downstream.

The Tyrolean Traverse: A taut rope, fixed across some terrible abyss (naturally),

to which climbers affix themselves in a sit-harness and slide themselves with pulleys

from one side to the other. Exhilarating funfor climbers.

I look at the thirty-plus people; they look back, suddenly startled. Darkness is

descending, and the helpful motor rigger is getting understandably impatient. Usually,

when training student climbers, I spend quite a bit of time on the particulars of knots,

safety, technique. No time for that, now.

I scan the huddled crowd, seeking the most squeamish. I gently lead her by her

elbow to the taut line. Nobody speaks. I have her step into the improvised harness, clip

her into the line.

Innocently, she asks So, uh, what are we doing?

Darlin, you just hold onto this rope here. Yep. Thats it.

Then I shove her off the cliff.

It is a short distance to the other side, and before her terrified scream gets past her

lips, shes already in the arms of Lorna and Joel.


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No savior appears for the others. Just us scraggly half-clad hippy boatmen.

Gradually, efficiently, reluctantly, the rest follow.

The motor rig leaves. Its a half hour by motor, an hour by oar, maybe less with

the high water. There, at Tuckup, dry clothes, hot food, tea, sleeping bags, toiletsand

normalityawait. Once all are across, Moley and I frenetically disassemble the gear in the

last of the light. We toss the mess across to the others waiting on the ledge. They gather it

up and turn to clamber over the ledges into the shadows.

Almost over. Then it hits me.

I look over the edge, stand bolt upright and turn to Moley. He points a finger at

me, scowling, and says, Dont you say a word. I aint sticking around to think about it,

and leaps.

He is lithe, but he barely makes it, all scrambling feet and arms, pebbles knocking

loose and splashing into the dark water below. Silent and now alone, I shake my head,

mouth twisting into a crooked grin.

Deep breath, jump.

We pile wordlessly into our boats and cast off. Floating along on the moonlit

Colorado, cliffs drift by like sentinels. Small rapids are rowed by heart. The Black Cloud,

having only barely reached the main gouge of the Canyon, has now entirely vanished,

leaving an impeccable corridor of brilliant stars, like sea foam punctuated by the crescent

moon, a pendant hanging on a necklace. There is soft conversation; we share trail mix.

Each of us considers crag and sky and the essence of things. I listen to the sounds of

oarlocks squeaking gently, oars dipping, caressing the water. Sweet music.


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My ears hear Tuckup rapid. Not much of a rapid reallybut in the dark with nine

passengers on a snout?

Catching eddies is a special skill, second nature usually. But sometimes theyre a

bitch. Sometimes you miss one. In a snout, theyre pretty much always a struggle. Add

fast current, weight, darkness I really dont need any more epics today. Downstream

and to our right, dozens of flashlights and dancing fires light up the cliffs like a Revival

Meeting. It looks like a small city, all gaily lit up like that.

I want it.

I set the boat angle to catch the eddy, glance over my shoulder.

What on earth?...are those fireflies in the water there?

In any case, thats about where I need to be. I await my timing, pull hard.

The eddy, like a magnet, magically draws us in, much to my surprise. But there is

more. I now see that my strong and capable fellows, who were chest deep in the eddy,

have reached out, grabbed my boat, and pulled us in. A silhouette with a glowing Cyclops

eye ties us up; others leap aboard, embrace me. One offers a welcome bottle.

Relax, friend. Youre home now.

Notfireflies

Headlamps. Reflected in the night eddy.

This. Oh, this. Worth every struggle, every fear. My pards.

Boats and peoplefive river trips worth, spread out like refugees. Delicious

cooking smells drift across the dunes. Suzy runs up and gives me a bear hug. Her laugh is

all the welcome Ill ever need. I notice her bandaged hand. She shakes her head, smiling,

points to the paddle raft dry-docked in the sand, on its edge and being patched by


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firelight. A crowd of boatmen, beers in hand, surround it, passing a bottle. Tired as we

are, boatmens sleeping bags will remain lonely for a while yet.

Everyone okay?

She tells me of Jane and Dave and Joel.

No way! is all I can say. (This is what everyone will say as I retell the tale in the

years to come.)

Next morning, after sleeping in and re-rigging and breakfast, we separate, smiling

and waving and hooting, and slide back into the current on our separate ways towards

Lava Falls.

Lava is the largest whitewater maelstrom on one of the worlds most renowned

rivers. It drops over fifteen feet in seventy-five yards. It is filled with boat-flipping holes,

colossal waves, and bone-crushing volcanic rocks. It is now running high and furious at

forty-five thousand cubic feet per second. Enough to make any river runner queasy.

We pass Vulcans Anvil: a shiny, black basalt obelisk sitting placidly,

deceptively, a mile above Lava, dead smack in the center of the river. The core of an

ancient volcano, once violent, the Anvil is now an altar, the serene recipient of wayward

boaters prayers and offerings. We float that final mile of quiet water, hushed and

anticipatory, then round the ultimate bend.

Once again, we are met by the sound of water.

the havasu flash flood of 1984

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