Hance

By Tim Ferrall

It is early afternoon of Day 5.  Bittersweet memories are all that remain of the unseasonable June storm front that brought the cooler temperatures of the previous four days, as well as the brutal headwinds of Day 2.  Only a week shy of the Solstice, the sun has quickly reclaimed its rightful placeóa domineering ball of yellow firebrick searing everything in its domain.  The river has been quiet this morning, flowing smoothly, with little disturbance, relaxed and tranquil, as though savoring its little joke from the day before.  An inexperienced oarsman had learned the hard way that on THIS river even the unnamed holes would flip a 1 ton raft quicker than a Sunday Brunch omelet when he was careless enough to drop in sideways.  Luckily, damage had been minimalóa few wet clothes, a lost water jug, a few body bruises, and a badly bruised ego.

The river bends left, only slightly, but enough to expose ground previously unseen.  A sense of dÈj? vu comes over me, along with a chill, like hearing the first notes of the theme from ìJawsî.  On river left, a small barren beach appears, with a flat-topped rock the size of a minivan just left of river center.  And, yes, there it is, another large rock, round-topped, further down, just showing above an ominous horizon line.  A deep basso rumble is now audible and growing louder by the second.  ìAdmiralî Al G., our best and most experienced boatman, is already pulling strongly across the eddy line to the beach, with Brian and the paddleboat in his wake.  Now it is my turn.  A quick spin to the right, a few hard pulls backward across the middle of the eddy line, a 180 degree spin, and Erika hits the guys on the beach with a perfect bow line toss.  A few tugs on the rope and the raft is beached and tied securely. 

I remember this beach well.  Five years ago, 16 of us had huddled under a Rube Goldberg assemblage of rope, tarps, and oars trying to avoid cremation.  We had learned from that experience, and today two quick-assembly shade shelters will be promptly removed from the boats and set up.  Admiral Al, always the scout, reappears from the brush on river left, mumbling something about it being like he remembered it.  A few of us follow him back through the brush to confirm his observation for ourselves.  Hance Rapid is a fearsome sight.  150 yards across, and about 500 yards long, it is the largest rapid on the river.  Rated as a ì9î on the 1-10 Colorado River difficulty scale, it is, (with due respect to House Rock and Unkar Rapids), the first real test the river gives a boatman. With its 30 foot total drop equating to a 120 foot/mile gradient and 10,000+ CFS, it is enough to get the attention of all but the most jaded steep creek kayaker.

On the left, the entrance is guarded by the large round-topped sentinel rock, and the left side tends to be ìbonyî at low water levels, with a number of large rocks exposed well out in the current.  The center has a small abrupt drop off at entry, and a big wide reversal further down that places that route squarely in the ìnot recommendedî category.  The entrance on river right is good, but the river quickly turns into a foaming mass of continuous holes and reversals that are usually challenged only by the commercial ìbaloney boats.î  One of these motorized jumbos had passed us only an hour earlier and a professional guide had admonished us to, ìÖscout the next one, itís very dangerous.î  It was a warning that no one was taking lightly, but we will do much more than scout this rapid.  For the next 20 hours we will live with it in a relationship that will both benefit and consume us.  Hanceís waters will cleanse, cool and hydrate our bodies, cool our beverages, help in meal preparation and cleanup, and occupy our fishermenís time.  It will roar in our ears like some phantom freight train, spawning countless stories of other rivers and other days.  Like the amateurs we are, we will scout and re-scout, mentally run and rerun, guess and second guess everything, pondering all the possibilities, while dying a thousand deaths along the mental road. 

It had all happened to me before, five years ago, on this same spot, with the same fears.  I was a veteran paddler, with dozens of trips and uncounted miles behind me, but when Al had asked me to captain an oarboat, it was to be the first time I ever pulled a pair of  oars through moving water.  I had struggled for five days, doggedly clawing my way out of an endless succession of eddies, caroming like an overgrown cork through rapids like Badger, House Rock, Unkar, and, Nevill.  Words of encouragement from my boat mates had failed to buoy my spirits, for I knew that much bigger water was still ahead.  Worst of all, my bride of three months was to join me in two days to put her safety literally in my two hands.  Hance had seemed an unconquerable monster then, especially with the initial plan to enter on the far right, then back ferry across to river left.  I had mentally looked at the idea of slipping past the sentinel rock on the left, and staying left, but had not verbally pressed the idea, deferring to my more experienced friends.  For four days, our group had been playing a game of daily leapfrog with a crack team of oar pros from Canyon Explorations, and it seemed a good plan to let them run first that morning while we watched, learned, and then followed.  To my amazement, they entered the left side, stayed left, and made the run without incident. 

      What happened next was, for me, little short of miraculous.  When I eddied out below the rapid, I had made a clean, controlled run, as good as or better than all but one of the CanEx pros.  From that moment on, I was a raft captain, confident and secure in the knowledge that if something bad happened, it would be due to either Providence or a mistake, not a result of any inadequacy.  It was a rite of passage, and for that reason, Hance held a special meaning for me.  Now, five years later, I wondered if anything could ever equal the magic of that spe cial run.  Alone on the boat that night, with a billion stars for company, my special rapid wove one more spell, its rocking waves and roaring waters putting me to sleep as surely as my motherís lullabies over a half century ago.

      Every boatman has some quirky behaviors that surface when the game gets serious, and for Al it is stowing his hat and sunglasses.  Even from 400 yards away I can see that Al is bareheaded.  We are making the run in two stages.  Al is first, Brian second, while I am the downstream safety person until Al eddies out safely.  Then I will run, followed by Bruce and Eddie.  My camera is in my hand, the throw bag at my feet, but somehow I know that the bag will remain unused.  Al is a competent oarsman, and with his sister-in-law aboard and his daughter next to me working the video camera, itís highly unlikely that he will blow it.  I watch as he makes a textbook run, the stern of his boat kicking up high over the last big roller, then pulls hard left into the big eddy.  Brian and his crew have one anxious moment, the boat fishtailing a little in the middle portion of the run, but manage to exit the maelstrom safely.

      Now it is my turn.  I make the long walk back upstream, give the boat a final, final check and pull on the old battered purple helmet, tugging the chinstrap tight.  The bowline comes in, good luck wishes are exchanged with the shore crew, and, with a shove, it begins.  The oars feel good in my hands as I follow the eddy current upstream.  For far too many hours, the adrenaline has burned in my belly, deprived of its rightful outlet by our layover.  Now the butterflies vaporize, the lusted-after head rush starts, and focus amps up to the redline.  The grips are alive in my hands, a conduit transmitting the riverís pulse from the blades to my now turbocharged back and shoulder muscles as I break out of the eddy at the top, turn, then pull hard out into midstream.  The boat rides sideways in the current, the bow facing left as it passes 20 feet to the right of the large flat topped rock.  Intently staring at the sentinel rock downstream, it would be easy to overlook the smaller rock just ahead, but a couple of gentle backstrokes and it passes harmlessly in front of the bow, then a couple of forward strokes to line up again on the sentinel rock.  I stand up to get a better view, marveling yet again how this river does not rush into its rapids, preferring to go from tranquility to rage in the blink of an eye.  There is little to be seen past the horizon line, but it doesnít matter, I already know what awaits us.  Sit down now, take care, put the stern just left of the sentinel, as close as possible, but donít hit it.  Use the pull of the eddy behind the rock to help make the all-important pivot.  Keep the oar grips down, the blades high out of the water to avoid catching them in the initial drop.  Closer, closer, here it is, ìLETíS DO IT!î

      It is called ìThe Zoneîóa rare moment when mind, body, and environment meld in perfect harmony, time freezes, and the whole world becomes a film watched in slow motion.  Once experienced, it is never forgotten, never experienced it can never be understood.  I was in ìThe Zoneî.  The right side of the boat lurches downward into the entrance, the eddy behind the sentinel tugs at the stern, pulls it in and slows it, causing the bow to swing to the right.  Almost by itself, the right oar blade goes back, then downward, biting hard as it comes forward.  Another stroke, shorter and weaker than the previous one, and the pivot is complete, the bow now pointing at a 45 degree angle downstream and toward the right.  The water is still green, but with a ìwhite attitudeî, having not yet morphed into the waiting chaos towards which we are accelerating.  The band of green water runs for almost 100 yards diagonally to the right, directly into a wide reversal in river center.  I have to pull left across this band into the haystacks on river left to avoid the carnage.  The urge to back row is strong, but I have to resist it for now.  Lean forward, push the oar grips down, wait, watch over the left shoulder as the raft draws even with the last of the rocks on the left.  ìNOWî! my brain screams as I uncoil like a python, legs driving feet into the rowing support.  The oars bite deep and clean, the raft slows and pulls left.  In a trance-like state, I seem to see everythingósubmerged rocks, bands of green water, reversals, haystacksóall the things noted during scouting are checked off the mental notebook as the raft rockets downstream.  Focus is total now, even Erikaís screams of delight, usually audible for hundreds of yards, go almost unnoticed.  I look left between each oar stroke, checking for safe water to plant the downstream oar to prevent it from crabbing.  The diagonal current appears in front of the bow, Iím safely across, the big reversal is no longer a threat.  Water sprays over and into the boat as it hits a trough diagonally.  The first haystack is coming up quickly, time to turn to face it.  I wait for a rising swell, plant the left oar into it and pull hard.  A quick forward stroke with the right oar follows, and the raft now faces the rollers head on.  Oars up again, watch the water, react to whatever it does, keep as straight as possible.  Itís all over now, even if it isnít over, time to enjoy the roller coaster.  Up and over the first one, make the corrections left or right quickly, then oars up.  Hereís the second one, no problem there, either, now the third one.  ITíS DONE!  The trance breaks, and I throw my head back and fling a primal scream of ìYESSS!î to the heavens.  A picture-perfect run, marred only by its having to end.  Savoring the ecstasy, I momentarily forget about catching the left side eddy.  I make a couple of strokes toward it, realize that it is too late, and look for another place to stop.  In moments, Erika is standing on a rock at river right holding the bowline tight.  A large motorized raft appears and pulls into the calmer water nearby.  Cutting the motor, the guide informs us that a raft from our group is stuck on a rock at the head of the rapid.  I than k him for the information, and he moves on.  There is nothing to do but wait, watch, and hope.  In short order, Eddie appears, followed by Bruce, both safe.  Bruce had indeed been hung up on a rock but it had been just above the entrance and had caused only a short delay. 

      Further adventures await us downstream, so I turn my back on Hance, perhaps for the last time, and follow my companions.  Regrettably, there is no time to celebrate, even though a celebration seems in order.  Not a victory celebration, for there is neither victor nor vanquished, but a celebration acknowledging the pure joy of the moment.  Like my companions, I had not fought the river, but had brought to her the qualities of respect, humility, meager skills, and my best effort.  In acceptance, the river had allowed me, ever so briefly, to join her in a dance both ancient and immortal, and the sweetness of the moment was her gift to me forever.