Riverboarding

The Canyon in December. Three well-trained and eager women set out to fulfill a dream thought by some to be impossible, imprudent and ill conceived—to riverboard 295 miles, from Glen Canyon Dam to Lake Mead, unassisted by a raft, in the cold waters of winter. That we would succeed, is only a small part of the story of the joy and adventure. And maybe not the most important part. For this is a story based on the belief that a simple journey is still worth doing. A success measured not only in distance traveled or the unaccomplished becoming complete, but in the more intangible elements of solitude, intimacy with the River, teamwork, humor in the face of crisis, flexibility and dogged persistence.
The actual vision for this trip came six years ago from Connie Tibbitts and myself, on a river company training trip in which we were able to spend a considerable amount of time on riverboards as a training tool. The original goal; the pure fun of it! Connie and I tried for a couple years, on the old call-in system, to get a cancellation on a private trip launch date sometime in the summer. We were unsuccessful and I finally got one for the end of November 2000. Because Connie is more sensible than I, she wished me luck and decided there are better times to be in the Canyon on a riverboard than the winter!
Teresa Yates, Kelley Kalafatich and I showed up at Lees Ferry in November of 2000 with riverboard permit in hand and were literally laughed off the river by some Glen Canyon rangers who were doing a search on that fateful day. Word got around and the Lees Ferry ranger, at the order of the River District Ranger, came to the ramp to inform us we could not launch without a boat and it was illegal for us to use the riverboards as they were an “aid” to swimming. We peacefully contested their decision and departed with our hearts in our shoes but also with the impression that the Park just didn’t understand exactly what a riverboard is and what exactly it was that we were trying to do.
The three of us, and Ruthie Stoner, spent the next three days preparing a 100 page document with five sections, that included; showing the riverboard as a watercraft as defined by the Coast Guard; the historical evolution of watercraft in the Canyon; the board’s recreational, commercial and rescue applications; our ability to carry all Park Service required gear and our experience as applicants.
It is important, from the beginning, to dispel some of the myths about what a “riverboard” is or perhaps what it is not. It is not some flimsy piece of foam, a “surf mat” or anything like a “boogie board”. It is made of thick ethylfoam with 160 pounds of flotation. (Much more than your average “Need Help” cushion). The bottom of the board is lined with thin plastic for speed and there are six plastic handles attached with through bolts that are rated for extracting people from the water by helicopter. A piece of foam, yes, but an exceptionally large and durable one.
We presented our document to the River District Ranger and he actually agreed with our contention that it was indeed a misunderstanding of sorts that prevented our launch. All that was left, was to pursue it through the correct channels.
Despite monthly phone calls, nothing was pursued further until one of those original Glen Canyon rangers became the new River District Ranger and the first thing that landed on his desk was our proposal. He chuckled at the irony of it and navigated our request and document through the bureaucratic channels until I believe it was even reviewed by the Park Soliciter. In November of 2001, with an enthusiastic voice, I was informed that we would be allowed to go; partially based on our river and rescue experience with the boards and in expeditions, and partially based on the sensibility of our argument.
On November 25th, under clear and cold winter skies, Kelley Kalafatich, a lifetime partner in adventure; Rebecca Rusch, a newer friend and teammate of ours on the US Women’s Rafting team, myself, and some supporters, met Barbara Foster at the Boat Ramp and headed to the base of Glen Canyon dam. Smitty, (as she is known to all of us) and I met earlier in my career at Kwagunt when I had inadvertently landed across the river from my camp without a boat. She transported me back across and we have been friends ever since. It was an emotional start to the trip, as my Dad accompanied us upriver. The last time he had been on that section of River was on a six week descent of Glen Canyon and Grand Canyon in 1959 on a Sierra Club trip in protest of Glen Canyon Dam. His tear stained cheeks, were a testament to someone who knows firsthand what lies under the waters of that dam.
It took us five long and cold hours to float the fifteen miles to Lees Ferry and we arrived at dark, a bit cold. Rebecca’s drysuit had filled with about four gallons of water and Kelley’s, with at least one. Problems in paradise, already. We spent the next day, in a wind storm above 10-mile rock on the cliffs of Marble Canyon, figuring out a strategy to deal with these “drysuits” that Kelley had rented from a dive shop. Finally, our solution was to take old drysuits, that we planned on using as spares, and bring them up to speed with a Fed-Ex delivery of drysuit gaskets and feet from Northwest River Supplies to Marble Canyon. They would arrive on our launch date, the 27th, and two friends would need to hike them into Badger for us. The first few days downriver, would now involve working in time to put on the extra gaskets. In the meantime, Rebecca and Kelley would use two drysuits at once.
My journal entry at Badger, November 28th: “The fire blazes and we sit in silence—so much activity these last few days that it is hard to take it all in. Emotions, fears, surfacing and working through them one by one, figuring out which ones are issues we can change, which are intangible and which are just challenges a trip like this brings with it.”
Like solving the early dilemma of drysuit leakage, all of our trip would be a process of discovery. It is not as if we had it all perfectly planned out. We discovered techniques that worked as we went. It was part of the fun. No “how to” books, just good equipment, good spirits and lots of extra cord and duct tape in case something went wrong.
Friends, fishermen and rangers were shaking their heads as all of our gear, towed behind us on another riverboard, turned turtle before we even made it out of the Lees Ferry eddy. The idea of using a riverboard for our gear came after realizing that the minimum amount of weight we needed for a safe winter trip was about 80–100 pounds a piece. The abalone floats, day packs and other brilliant ideas we came up with were inadequate for this amount of gear. Kelley’s day in the surf with Bob Carlson is the day the idea to use a riverboard for the gear evolved. We tried it out amongst rotting salmon on the lower American River in early November and it was clearly the superior way.
Rider Canyon, November 29: “We pushed off the beach from Badger at 12:30 pm and the first thing that happened, again, was that Kelley and Rebecca’s boards rolled over on the eddy line We pulled over and re-rigged! We found today that a low and wide rig works much better than getting our load up high at all—a low, wide profile is key. We floated down to Soap Creek rapid—stopped briefly to look at the reptile tracks in the Coconino and then Rebecca and I pushed off, letting our gear boards run in front of us. Soap had big waves today—feel so small, dropping into these rapids on those little boards—I actually know the river so well that I can figure out where I am, but otherwise you are just lost amidst the waves—feeling the power and gentleness of the river all at once—Rebecca and I were able to eddy out and wait for Kel to film and then we floated off into the swirlies just holding on to the boards from the sides! I actually “herded” my board for a while until I realized it works better to just hold on from the side. Kel and Reba did it from the beginning of the swirlies and it actually stabilizes everything—it was the best method at Badger too! As the board starts to flip over, you can hi-side it and push it down. Soap went well, and I was super nervous about all the eddies through the Supai narrows with the radical helical flow—but we just kicked on through...all’s well!” We learned over the first couple days, that by rigging our gear, wide and low, we created a stable craft. Almost, like packing a horse, weight distribution was key to creating a perfectly stable platform.
We towed our loads in the flatwater with a floating rope and handle attached into the quick release ring on the back of our “live bait” rescue jackets. Anytime the water got rough, we detached from our jackets and stuffed the rope into a bag attached to the front of the board. Through rapids, we would either float next to our gear holding on tight, or let it ride through on its own and retrieve it at the bottom. We expended less energy by actually holding on to the side of our gear boards than by kicking back to them afterwards. After we learned to “highside”, we became very stable platforms with the extra weight of our gear. We were able to run everything in this manner.

House Rock, Granite and Lava were the only rapids we opted to line the gear through the rocks along the inside of the turns.
Speaking of gear, our gear was 100% dry in our Watershed drybags. The only time we had any water was when we failed to close them correctly and even then, only drops of water. Those bags are unbelievable. Bill Beer and John Daggett convinced us that the amount of fun we would have would be directly proportional to how dry we could keep our sleeping bags, camp clothes, and food. Because of the Watershed bags, we slept warm and dry every night and ate delicious meals instead of soggy pasta and disintegrated oatmeal. If we had the added challenge of wet gear, I am honestly not sure our spirits would have held out as well as John and Bill’s did.
It seems our trip provided us, uniquely, with one challenge at a time. After we got the drysuits fixed, we had a gas stove canister burst into a stream of fire.
My journal entry at South Canyon, December 2nd: “Beautiful light on the walls, normal dinner routine, normal night, until something happened with the fuel bottle and gas started spewing out and ignited Rebecca’s hand and down jacket on fire! Kelley buried her arm in the sand and then the fireworks started. A full stream of fire—a food bag also on fire. We raced Rebecca to the river and put her hand in. How quickly things can get out of control—from a serene camp scene, to a serious injury! At first, I had no idea she was burned but now fear how much damage was done The immediate good news was no black skin—some darkish looking skin turned out to be soot. Second good sign was redness and immediate blistering—still—how much pain? Is it worse than we think? Can she bend her hand? Can we keep it clean enough? Take a deep breath, one step at at time, manage the burns tonight, see how bad they are in the morning.We put her hand in a pot of cold water and gave her some whiskey.We popped the blisters as they started to fill with fluid and I have codeine in my pocket if it gets bad. By the time we went to bed, her fingers were red, swollen and oozing—she slept with the pot of water next to her. Every time I woke up in the night she was asleep and that felt so good. A good sign, a friend not feeling too much pain to sleep. I woke every hour or so and contentedly rolled back over when I found her breathing deeply and sleeping soundly.”
Fortunately for us, her burns were only partial thickness and we were able to manage them each day by individually wrapping her fingers with gauze and tape, and further protecting them in a surgical glove. Eventually, even after hours and hours of repair work, those same stoves would fail us completely and we would resort to cooking on small fires for the duration of our trip. We had a metal oil pan and were so very glad that it was required.
Our next challenge would come on the early morning of December 4th, as we headed for Phantom Ranch. Our first rain came with dark, ominous clouds as we descended into the Inner Gorge. All the rapids would go smoothly, but as we wandered into Phantom Ranch for a leisurely visit, I would face a possible heart attack in my family. While we sorted out the seriousness of the situation, the Phantom Ranch employees welcomed us and made sure we were well fed, hydrated and kept warm and dry. The Rangers were helpful with information and re-supplying our first aid kit with extra gauze and second skin. It was incredible to be hosted and welcomed in such a warm way and so well taken care of. When we left Phantom, after a false alarm, our new friends waved to us from the Bridge. It is a feeling of warmth and encouragement that I will never forget and gave us extra chutzpah for the rapids to come.
We frolicked in the rapids of the Inner Gorge. They were big and all encompassing and completely exhilarating. At times we were scared—aren’t we all down there? And obviously, each day had its individual challenges and glories of which the details could fill a book. Ultimately, the more comfortable we became with ourselves in our new environment, the more we became a part of the River and the Canyon.
My journal entry at Tuckup: Day 14, December 10, 4:3o pm: Tuckup Mile 165, 36 degrees, Raining with clouds blowing up the Canyon. Contentment with friendships, intimacy of water. Floating is comforting—the feel of eddy lines—unknown currents massaging my legs, pulling at my feet. Magic light fills the Canyon, fills me. Glowing—softer in light, harsher in temperature, drawing us into her midst. Fuzzy hats keep us warm. Sand blows and then it is completely still. We are quiet, absorbing. It sinks into skin, through pores, and fills our being, through immersion. Impossible to look down on the water, we see from within the water, within the waves. We are at eye level. It caresses, massages, slaps and punches, dances and roars and laughs, sucks us this way and that lets us through and we are lost in its embrace. We can control where we go to a certain extent. We can hold on to our gear or let it go—sometimes it stabilizes us, sometimes pulls us this way and that and then—flip. Canyon walls always rise above us—everything at eye level, like the Common Merganser. Blue Heron sees more. She has stayed with us to give us heart and courage with her good omens and ancient wisdom. We float, encounter waves with no resistance, and slide through. Sometimes I am scared. Granite. Upset—I think of Shorty Burton and look for his pie plate and hope he puts a good word in for us to the Watchers of this canyon. I think about Lava and know it will be Big, so much bigger than us—we will look for the course of least resistance and I will be fearful at the top and then I will be in, with, tossed by, covered by it. It will be what it is. We are entering the Mojave Desert, our coldest days—December of course—part of the price for being here almost solo. The rain slides off the mega-mid onto the sand. Occasional drops here and there reminding us we are not impervious to any of it We try to build walls of strength around us to protect us from others, ourselves, the elements. Life is about dissolving those barriers. The river dissolves us.”
As we reached Separation Canyon, and knew the rapids were behind us, we started to relax, maybe a little bit. We spent time reflecting with each other about our journey. But the Canyon’s powerful beauty kept our focus on her.
December 15, 5 am, mile 265 river left: Cold, rainy night—asleep at 7:30 pm yesterday, exquisite, clouds pouring over limestone walls, snow everywhere, Yosemite-like It is another world here where terradactyls and dinosaurs should be appearing. We are camped above the lake line in a tamarisk grove—slippery, slidy mud to get down to the river. Lashed boards together into a big floating platform—kicked some, floated some, sat backwards and kicked some, 26 miles yesterday—we think we will make it to Pearce Ferry today. Rebecca is wet and worried. We’ve had a couple cold days, cold but so beautiful. Will we really immerge, today, into a land of flashing Christmas tree earrings, is it really Christmas time out there?”
We kicked into Pearce Bay on December 15th at around 2:00 p.m. We celebrated our arrival and disgust with the reservoir at the same time with a bad bottle of rot-gut whiskey as we kicked the last half-mile in the flatwater of the reservoir. Two good friends, the same ones that hiked in our FedEx package of gaskets, Carr Clifton and Abigail Polsby waited out a two day snow storm to meet us at the closest turnout. We staggered up a silty shoreline with gear in tow for our final look back.
My last journal entry: “We were immersed in the intimacy of water. A part of the River—its gentleness and strength. Enveloped in its light—the snow catching the emerald reflection of river, the walls bathed in orange and red. The solitude and silence of our days punctuated by the songs of Canyon Wrens, calls of migratory ducks and geese; shrieks of wisdom from the Herons and the soft storm of wind from the flapping of an eagle’s wings.”
To all of you, who believed in this dream, and contributed ideas, encouragement and even just smiles, I say a huge thank you. An idea put forward by Connie Tibbitts, over six years ago, became reality due to the determination and reasonability of many people, including Ruthie Stoner, Teresa Yates, Michael McGinnis, Bob Carlson, Josh Weston, Carr Clifton, Abigail Polsby, John Middendorf, Garrett Schniewind, the list goes on. When you have a dream, that is initially a little off the wall, you find there are two kinds of people; some just simply say it will never happen and have all sorts of sensible reasons why not—and then there are those that immediately start thinking of how to help make it work! Without these people, our trip would not have been possible. The American spirit of adventure and discovery is still very much alive in the spirits and souls of all those willing to support someone trying to do something different: just for the doing of it.
Julie Munger