You Don’t Get Butterflies for No Reason

An epic adventure around, down and out of the Grand Canyon

By Parker Christiansen

Driving down to the Marble Canyon Lodge was a push through all the elements. Starting the trip from Missoula for the first stretch to Salt Lake City was a white-knuckle drive in white out conditions. I had to be at Lee’s Ferry for rig up on March 9th and nothing was stopping that. I was seeking one of the most extreme adventures I’d ever had.  I was going to float the Colorado from Lee’s Ferry to the Bright Angel Trail, hike out from the river to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and finish up in Moab biking world class trails.  I was in this quest alone but meeting up with  lifelong friends and meeting new people all along the way.

From Salt Lake the conditions improved into Arizona, a state that was never very attractive to me until I reached it. Before entering Arizona, I’d left my bike at Willow Springs Gear and Espresso shop in Kanab, Utah. The store owner, Charlie, was kind enough to hold my Trance in his garage for a week. Driving across desert plains into the North Kaibab wilderness made me wonder why I’ve always given Arizona such a hard time. I saw a coyote while making a pit stop and thought about the beautiful diversity all mashed up. I barked along with the coyote at the magnificent vermin that thrive in these desolate yet fruitful spaces. 

The road into the Vermilion cliffs reminded me I was driving some serious roads. The red rock of the cliffs peeked through the shale, pinyon pine and brush as you drop into swerves that descend nearly 4,000 feet in a matter of minutes. I slammed the pedal at the base of the cliffs. I arrived at Lee’s Ferry at 4:23pm on March 9th.  I immediately met up with my float team.  Not a familiar face in the crowd except two old buddies from my days at the University of Montana, Bass(Sebastian) and Oliver, two brothers with no reverence.  You could say I can get along with anyone, especially anyone who likes the same things as me and this group all had the desire and drive to get into the Grand Canyon together. The floaters ranged in age from 22 to mid 50’s, with the oldest being a ranger that worked this very park for 20 years, Ed.  He just moved to the Grand Tetons National Park, so I guess you could say he loves grand rocky regions. 

Between March and May is one of the best times to float the Colorado. You avoid the crowds, the gnarly monsoons and the devastating heat the area is susceptible to in the summer. However, in March the water rarely makes it to 50 degrees fahrenheit. Dry suits and neoprene boots are a must, with a rain jacket, light neoprene or wool gloves, wool base layer and a 110L drybag will keep spirits up.  We finished rigging our boat and headed up to the lodge for final touches.

The next morning, after a 7am quaint breakfast we hiked down to our four-bench paddle boat.  We hopped in our dry suits and strapped down every NRS strap we could find including a flip line (just in case). We waited for the Park Ranger to spiel his wisdom about river safety and conservation.  “You have to pack out 99% of what you take in” he said.  “That means you pee in the river, that’s your 1%.” This was the first I’d heard of a groover.  He mentioned clever ravens that will dance to distract you while the other pecks through your backpack to steal your trail mix, or for some poor soul to lose their shiny Rolex. From scorpion stings and deadly currents to the cringy jokes he says most mornings we hear the ranger out and end up repeating his words to each other later to get laughs that he seemed to miss out on. 

We take off onto the green tinted Colorado River after we get the go ahead. It started snowing and hailing right away at Marble Canyon Bridge and by the time we hit any rapids we thought the water shots may freeze our dry suits shut. Brett (the trip badass) looked over at our boat asking if we were cold after being hammered by sleet and wind. I nodded my head and gave a hard yes before he could say, “You can be honest,” as my whole boat had red ears and stiff hands. We went another mile or so before reaching camp at a sandy cliff overhang the river left. We had a spaghetti dinner around my little LED lamp. The camaraderie among this newly created crew was already buzzing. You somewhat expect that on a trip like this. That night after watching some cold boys dry off from a dip, I snuggled up on my sandy shelf just a few feet the Colorado river.

Waking up to Ed giving a guttural “coffee!!” call was fantastic. One; I love coffee, and two; the sun was just hitting the top mark on the sandstone a couple thousand feet above. Like a sandstone sun clock letting me know it’s time to get on the river. For breakfast we made our own version of a McGriddle with a couple sausage links and fried egg. We heard last call for coffee, breakfast, lunch making and of course groover use. We then packed it all on the boats and strapped it down once again.

That day was much brighter and warmer. The sun was out, and larger rapids promised wet hair. House Rock was coming up and it had everyone on high stoke alert. We really tried figuring out how we would successfully maneuver our dinky paddle boat through such a rapid. Luckily, we had a good string of boats and new friends on either side of us in case anything happened. We hit House rapid floating through the right of the two big holes. If anything, we were too cautious and eddied out a bit too soon to the right.  However, Indian Dick was up next, and we would be swimming four of the five people on my boat. Rafting into Indian Dick I heard the more experienced boaters mention “laterals.” I knew the concept of a lateral motion on paper, but in a wave, not a clue. From the base it must’ve been 12 feet tall cutting left into the tongue of the rapids preceding. This rapid is only rated a 4 out of 10, which explains why we’d underestimated it. Not squaring up to the lateral first wave was our mistake. It grabbed the front right side and threw our rower into me and the other front man. Whiplashing our captain out of the boat, only Oliver was left to cheer! Ed threw me a rope bag and pulled me onto one of his pontoon points to gather myself. It wasn’t until we had to swim that everyone had a noteworthy time. 

You don’t get butterflies for no reason. For days leading up to this trip my stomach was churning like the rapids themselves. We were all searching for that rush of adventure and esprit de corps that comes with it. Without a test of endurance, this trip would be nothing more than an exciting movie from the safety of our couches. You need a peer yelling at you to paddle like your life depends on it, because in some sense it does. Group mates had something to cheer about that night at camp. All the stories of true rapids others had run and experienced made us all feel alive.

While some of our days seemed to confluence together, with majestic red rock and green river being a daily occurrence, there were moments that would grab us and shake our corneas back into the reality we were living. Floating up to a big bend at mile 61 we noticed an odd color in the river.  The Little Colorado converges here creating a spectacular piece from mother nature’s swirls of two becoming one between the rock. This river looks dyed by a Smurfagedon. It is, in fact, a combination of travertine and limestone that create the highly vibrant light blue color that comes out of this little river. We hiked up a ways, exploring what this deep blue river had to offer before heading down another mile to our next camp that night.

We woke up one morning on the sandy beach of Crash Canyon camp.  Ed had his camera with a large lens setup on a tripod pointed at the remains of United Airlines Flight 718, a DC-7 that clipped TWA Flight 2 in 1956 bringing down both flights and resulting in the death of 156 passengers. The remains of Flight 718 were shimmering in the morning sun. We hiked after breakfast to the remains of Flight 2. Up the rocky hills, below the canyon walls, we found ourselves above the appropriately named Crash Canyon campsite. We found twisted bits of metal, a propeller perfectly intact, a Samsonite luggage key, a lonely bighorn sheep skull and more inauspicious objects lying in the red dirt of the Grand.

Among the floaters were some who had only been on mellow rivers, same as me.  Others in our party had experience on more unforgiving rivers, living to tell the tales and keeping us safe to tell ours. Even those of us like Josh, an experienced rafter and firefighter who claimed to have never been thrown out of his boat, were put in seriously tough spots. Many of us were put in a situation or two that got our heart racing, Josh is just an example. He has been floating for quite some time and was tossed from his seat on Hance Rapid that we scouted for ten minutes. It is a class 8/10 with high consequences if you swim in the wrong place. Luckily, his boat partner, Jodi, was ready to hop on the oars as soon as he lost his grip. Josh stayed under the water for a long 30 seconds and came up looking like a ghost. He was okay and Jodi was able to get him safely back onboard before even reaching the next boat that was locked and loaded with a throw bag. 

The night before my hike out of the river, I spent the evening connecting one last time with my new friends who would continue the river adventure without me.  I also attempted emptying my backpack for a lighter load on the way out. Getting rid of some whiskey Bass brought for a gear trade we did, a hat, all my snacks minus one granola bar.  None of which seemed to shave enough weight I thought the next morning as I slung my pack on. Just below Phantom Ranch our hike up 7.5 miles on the South Kaibab Trail began. This felt like a brand-new kind of experience, as every thousand feet you are greeted with a far out view of the canyon below. While floating you notice the walls that surround you day and night, not understanding the extravagant views above. You don’t need much more than the views from the river because every bend holds what seems to be enough. 

If you get the chance, combining the raft with the trek out is an unbelievable experience.  You realize how all embracing this wilderness is of the Grand Canyon’s secrets below.  When I reached the only water refill at  Indian Creek, thirsty and ready to refill my water bottles, I realized the river is a thing of the past. I did not see the Colorado River after Indian creek or again until the drive back to Marble Canyon Lodge. Hiking five strenuous hours to the edge of the South Rim. A very pleasant surprise of this hike was the temperature drop, all other surprises seemed to include a steep bend or false summit. Every shaded cold spot that held a little snow was a gift from the canyon near the top. I was passed by runners, tourists and other enthusiasts enjoying the same canyon. As we walked up the last set of steps to the visitor center there were a lot of people, some just gift getters and others runners or hikers, it felt like crossing a finish line. 

Until the next day, while driving past the large Vermilion cliffs, and up the swerving steep grades of highway 89A back towards Kanab to grab my bike. It was my last time I’d see some of those new friends, cliffs, massive whitewater waves, and for a while, old mates, in the same form they all were on this trip.The transition into the deep coniferous forest of North Kaibab was an emotional change of scenery for me. I was about to cover what seemed like every inch of land from the deepest part of Arizona, to mountainous Montana. Eating great food, searching for hikes, rides and joking back and forth for laughs from my next group of friends. Although, it’s tough letting go of my current friends on the river that have waves ahead and my goodbyes behind, as I drive looking to my left at the massive canyon sinking into the plateau out of view and wishing the crew good luck. This trip was unforgettable for me, one that I will one day recommend to many friends and family (trying to tag along) with stories that can’t fit here.