Staying Active

Black Creek Rapids hit with a surge of power as the river squeezed through a narrow passage between towering rocks. The raft plunged into the main current, pushing us toward a series of jagged boulders and steep, breaking waves. The boat bucked and swayed, dipping through the first set of waves as the cold water crashed over the sides. We paddled hard to keep our line, avoiding the dangerous rocks that lurked just beneath the surface. Each stroke brought us through another wild wave, the raft lifting and falling with the rhythm of the river.

We set off from the put-in, the crisp morning air filling our lungs as we pushed off into the Main Fork of the Salmon River. The water was clear and cold, flowing smoothly at first, as we made our way through the calm stretches of the river. But it didn’t take long before the river's power became undeniable. The first set of rapids approached quickly, the roar of the water growing louder as the current picked up. We paddled into the rush, the boat lifting and plunging with the waves as the first few rapids tested our coordination and nerve.

As we left the river behind, the jetboat's engines roared to life, sending a spray of water behind us as we cut through the calm water of the Colorado. The canyon walls slowly receded, revealing the vastness of the landscape that had once felt so intimate. The sharp cliffs and narrow, winding passages we had navigated on the dory now looked distant, almost surreal from the speed of the boat. The wind whipped across our faces, a welcome contrast to the still air of the canyon floor.

Bridge Canyon Rapid came at us fast and direct, a powerful tongue driving straight into a series of big, crashing waves stacked down the middle. The current accelerated quickly, funneling us into steep haystacks that rose high and broke hard over the bow. The first hit sent a cold wall of water straight into the front of the dory, soaking everyone up front. We kept a clean, straight line through the heart of the wave train, the boat flexing with each impact but holding its course.

232 Mile Rapid stretched wide across the river, a boulder-strewn maze where the current split and rejoined around scattered rocks. We entered on a clean center line, slipping between exposed boulders as the current surged and dropped through small ledges. A set of tight standing waves met us mid-rapid, slapping the bow and sending cold spray across the deck. The dory flexed and responded well as we picked our way through, adjusting angles quickly to stay clear of lurking rocks just beneath the surface.

212 Mile Rapid hit fast and sharp, with a narrow tongue that dropped quickly into a cluster of standing waves and chaotic boils. The main current funneled toward the center, where a series of laterals crashed hard from the right, threatening to shove the dory off line. We drove straight down the middle, punching through a steep wave that sent a cold sheet of water over the bow. Quick, controlled strokes held our angle as we threaded past submerged rocks and swirling eddies.

205 Mile Rapid came into view as a broad, boulder-strewn drop where the river funneled tightly against the left bank. A long tongue of swift current pulled us in fast, pushing toward a line of exposed rocks and breaking waves along the left shore. We angled right to stay clear of the boulders, driving through a center wave train that rose in steep, choppy steps. Cold water splashed over the rails as we rode through a series of surging laterals that tried to spin the dory broadside. Quick strokes kept us lined up cleanly, the boat flexing as it powered through each wave and boil.

We pulled ashore and followed the winding footpath up Havasu Creek, where clear turquoise water spilled over smooth limestone ledges and coursed between sculpted rock walls. The contrast to the dark, muddy Colorado was striking — cool, vibrant pools shimmered in the sunlight, inviting tired feet and quiet reflection. We waded upstream through gentle cascades, the water silky and cold against our skin, and paused beneath overhanging cliffs where travertine deposits built delicate terraces.

With the plan clear and nerves sharpened, we pushed off into Lava Falls, the most formidable rapid of the trip. The river dropped fast and hard, funneling into a steep tongue that hurled us toward the infamous Ledge Hole on river left, a massive hydraulic capable of swallowing a dory whole. At the oars was Rio, calm and focused, setting us up with deliberate precision. He angled us right of the hole, driving hard to catch the narrow chute that threaded between surging laterals and exploding waves.

We pulled the dory to the shore above Lava Falls, the sound of the river’s roar growing louder as we scouted the chaotic stretch ahead. The canyon walls loomed high, casting long shadows over the rapids below, where massive waves and jagged rocks churned the water into a frothing frenzy. The river here was a beast, and the line was anything but forgiving. As we studied the falls, the power of the water was unmistakable — there was no room for error. Every move would need to be precise, every stroke a calculated choice.