The overturned Fubar just below Basalt Canyon Rapid.

Every trip down the canyon offers a challenge.  The biggest challenge is of course, running the legendary rapids of the Colorado.  From the tales of James White, the records of Major John Wesley Powell, to the untamed torrents navigated by the first commercial boatmen of the 1920's and 1930's to the controlled flows of the post-Glen Canyon Dam age, the rapids are the single most daunting fact of the river.  They come at you faster and faster as the current speeds up as it approaches the horizon line, the roar of water rising to a crescendo as the river slams into, over and around rock as its course cascades down an abrupt fall in elevation.  Giant holes appear out of nowhere, swallowing your boat, huge waves batter you, spray bathes you in cold, and fear grips you as you strive to keep your boat upright and yourself aboard.

Guide books are a help.  They plot the location of the rapids, give you a sense of their difficulty and plot for you the observation points.  But the river is a living thing and the canyons are ever changing and the guide books age beyond accuracy.  And then a storm reshapes the canyon and its rapids and you are faced with what Major Powell faced, the unknown river. 

So was Basalt Canyon Rapid.  A new challenge hurled up before us through a flash flood that occured between 1999 and 2004.  And in that once rippling sweep of water around a bend where a rocky defile joins the river now stands a giant boat flipping hole.  Leading the entire flotilla, in the paddle boat we approached it not appreciating the new obstacle that lay in our path.  As we hit the tongue, we realized our dilmma and charged straight into the hole, screaming "oh shit!" as loud as we could.  From my back seat in the boat I looked up and saw, towering a good four feet above us, the wall of water that represented the other side of the hole.  Steve and Ian screamed and ducked down and the frigid water poured into us, filling the boat and freezing us.  In an instant we were through.

Then Tim passed through.  Then we saw the Fubar approach, with two of the occupants standing, fishing.  We yelled but over the roar and the distance we could not be heard.  Too late the boat tried to turn, the valiant oarsman at tempting to straighten the sideways approach.  They shot into the hole, disappeared from view only to reemerge sideways, and then, to our cries, to flip over, throwing all three riders into the river.

Fortunately, the river took a great bend and the boat, under the power of inertia, drifted into a corner and stuck fast.  The boats passengers swam to the rocky shore, in shock, upended, but ultimately ok.  We all congregate, flip the boat, assuage the nerves of the tossed and restart our journey.  The interesting thing is that just a few hundred yards back, Monica, as oarsman, and been thrown from her boat along with her dad, Al, at the minor Tanner Rapid.  So five that day took the swim within 20 minutes of one another, preceeding Rick, Bruce and Bob at Basalt. 

Soon we make Hance Rapid, a tumultous, thousand yard long major rapid, a 9 on the canyon scale.  There we camp, nap and celebrate our survival and renew our respect for the Mighty Colorado.

Camp at Hance	Partying on the beach at Hance	The upper part of Hance Rapid