Confronting Hance Rapid and Other Uncertainties

All the trips blend together now, except for that first one in April of 1966. Yet things might have turned out differently had Stan not bounded into the kitchen and heaved his briefcase onto the table one day in February.
“Donna, Donna, great news. We’re going to chaperone high school students down a river on a raft during Easter vacation.”
Stan’s outburst would turn out to be the result of a casual remark to a student whose father was part owner in a Salt Lake City rafting company.
“I know you’re afraid of water, but we’ll be wearing life jackets.” he said.
His enthusiasm couldn’t be denied, but I remained silent. I would wait to see what developed. All I knew was I would not go on that trip.
He knew I was afraid of water. But he didn’t know about the lessons at the local municipal plunge when I was a child.
I remembered the chlorine smell of the yucky foot baths we had to plop our feet into to fight athlete’s foot. Mostly, I remembered shivering, my arms wrapped about my torso, trying to ward off stomach cramps that only went away when the lessons ended, and the breathing spasms that hit when I inadvertently wandered into deep water.
When instructors tried to teach me the Australian crawl, I imitated the stroke magnificently, but planting my face in the water was another story. My heart would race, a sense of doom would invade my senses, and I would stop breathing for moments at a time.
How I hated that pool. But my resolute mother would heave a sigh every June and enroll me, once again, in those frightful lessons.
***
I never overcame my fear of water or learned to swim properly. But my fears were cast aside, and it wasn’t long until we found ourselves, along with 18 teenagers, at Lees Ferry boarding 22-foot rubber neoprene rafts.
Ski parkas, gloves and stocking caps worn under drab, olive green Army ponchos were the fashion of the moment for it was bitterly cold. But the weather didn’t impede the vigor and enthusiasm of those robust teenagers.
Other than the constant awareness that I might not return from what was probably my last vacation, life on the river wasn’t so bad. We encountered mostly calm water the first two days, with just some beginner rapids to acclimatize us.
Adjusting to “life in the sand” wasn’t always harsh, in spite of the cold. We found sand in the bottom of our coffee cups, our tennis shoes, our sleeping bags. We came to love that sand.
We also thought the Army ponchos we were advised to bring were a brilliant idea. You could snap them together to make a two-man tent or use them as tarps. When we donned our mandatory life jackets, we all looked and felt like puffy, green ducks, albeit wet ones. It wasn’t long before we discovered the ponchos were useless in keeping dry.
My fear of the water diminished when I found I could hold onto the rope and bail at the same time and still see where I was going. However, when a wave hit me in the face, I pretended no one noticed when I hyperventilated for what seemed like five minutes at a time.
By the morning of the fourth or fifth day I thought I had a handle on this river rafting business until we heard the boatmen discussing a rapid of great enormity—Hance Rapid. I tried to put the rapids out of my mind, but it didn’t work, and it wasn’t long until the boatmen (we didn’t call them river guides in those days) guided their rafts toward the shore and tied up.
Our boatman spoke with a soothing Western drawl. “Everyone stay in the boat while we scout the rapids.”
Naturally, some teenagers trailed after the boatmen. Not me—I stayed back shaking.
After some time, our boatman returned. Fear gripped me when he tightened our life jackets—he never did that before. He checked every rope and guide line and made sure all extra oars were within his reach and that the oar locks were working properly. He smoothed his sandy hair and donned gloves, all the while remaining quiet.
How come he doesn’t say anything? My stomach double flipped, and a heavy vise pressed on the center of my chest.
The first boat pulled out—slowly. Eventually, it made its way to the glassy tongue of the rapids. Then all we could see was swirling foam covering the raft.

A voice yelled out, “Oh, my God, they’ve swamped.”
No one uttered a word. There was no way to know if the boat before us made it through the rapids. I wonder what my little daughter will grow up to be?
On a signal from our boatman, two student flunkies pushed our raft out into the water. Why did we have to be the next boat?
Our boatman expertly maneuvered the oars to point the raft down river. His arms strained as he pulled on the oars. I positioned myself in the safest place possible—the center. Tumultuous sounds rumbled in my ears. Or is that my heart pumping? Slowly the raft crept to the edge of the watery shelf and descended into the foam. Shivering, stomach flipping, I closed my eyes and huddled next to the baggage like a big green lump. Apparently what I couldn’t see couldn’t hurt me, but deafening sounds were telling me different; why I won’t even feel the cold, I told myself, I’ll just die before I hit the water.
The raft dropped with a resounding thud. Surprisingly, we landed upright.
Loud, chaotic sounds terrified me, but two words spurred me to immediate action: “Bail, Bail.” I didn’t know who yelled, but eyes shut, I fumbled around for the ubiquitous bailing bucket that was also used for shaving in the morning and salad in the evening. Using a death-grip I tightened my hold on the rope attached to the raft so I wouldn’t go flying overboard—an image I couldn’t purge. Finally, a bucket conveniently floated by and nudged me. Eyes still shut, I groped, and picked it up—somehow still holding onto the rope. Then I bailed even though I had no idea if the water I was bailing was actually going overboard. The boat filled with more water as the waves spilled over us. Water entered my poncho from the opened spaces around my legs, causing me to shiver and shake; I could barely hold onto both the rope and the bucket. Every time a wave hit, I hyperventilated, but I never did let go of that rope.
How long is eternity? All I could hear were muffled and faraway sounds of laughter and screams. Don’t those blasted teenagers have any respect for death?
“Donna, open your eyes,” someone shouted. I was pretty sure it was my boatman, not God. He was laughing.
Shouts, laughter and screams continued, but now the sounds were real.
Slowly I opened my eyes, my white-knuckled right hand gripping the rough rope, my left hand grasping the empty orange bucket.
A quiet shout filled my tired lungs. Surprise! I am alive.
That night, even a steak couldn’t entice me to eat. Nausea and dizziness gave me an excuse to cozy up in my sandy sleeping bag, and I spent the rest of my short, waking hours reflecting on my laurels. I survived the day.
Silently I thanked my mother for not giving up on me. Did she unknowingly show me the way to face the unknown? To face down fear? Now, no longer would I say “no” to new opportunities just because I was afraid. Drifting off to sleep I dreamed of colorful hang gliders swooping over canyon walls.
Although I am still afraid of the water and have nightmares of drowning, we run the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon almost every spring—25 trips and counting.
During those years we have seen the rafting industry change for the better, rapids change course, and side canyons undergo drastic transformations. Seeing Havasu after a flash flood was a shock, but still beautiful in its nudity. The Elves Chasm pool now looks like a little paradise, and I love to sit among the monkey flowers and Zoroaster granite while the group heads on up to the water fall. I have seen boatmen traverse Crystal Rapids by at least three different routes during the last 36 years. We have also seen rookie boatmen begin their tour of duty, become head boatman and move on. And we have floated down the river during the 1996 flood. During that trip we rafted up the Little Colorado for at least a half mile (it seemed like a mile).
Yes, we have seen so much on the river over the years, but those wonderful experiences might not have happened had it not been for my making a major decision to accompany my husband on a river trip. I never forgot that first trip where I learned to face fears head on. And if I had my way and insisted on not going, I would have missed out on a lifetime in the canyon.

Donna Ashbaugh