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THE HAVASU FLASH FLOOD
1984
The clients are tired. They smile and drip, standing ankle deep at the edge of the
water, caressed by the sun. A cocoon of towering red cliffs and shimmering green
cottonwoods rim our iridescent acre of plunge-pool, domed with a sky of indigo. Is this
Mars? Maybe Jupiter? They fumble in daypacks for sandwiches, squirrels scatter.
Wearing nothing but my customary desert costume of shorts, running shoes,
floppy straw hat, full-wrap mirrored sunglasses, and daypack, I consider howling like a
coyote. Instead I concentrate on my own rather crumpled salami sandwich.
My gaze ascends leisurely up the full height of the improbable turquoise waterfall
to where it first arcs over the lip, nearly two hundred feet above. There are a few others
here, non-rafting civilians who have climbed down from the campground above
through a maze of dusty natural caves and steps carved into the vertical cliffs. The route
involves clutching rusty old cables installed ages ago by the local tribesmen, moving
through frozen waterfalls of sculpted orange travertine stalactites. Those who can manage
to speak do so in hushed tones, as if in a cathedral, leaving only the sound of water.
Destiny is at hand.
What the . The words, whispered to myself, desiccate into the dry air. My
smile does the same.
Appearing at the very brink of the falls, an uncanny presence, as yet
unidentifiable. Is it part of the sky? I try to sort things out, like a wolf sniffing the air. A
pressing blackness. Obsidian. Unmistakably monstrous, though I glimpse only its margin.
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My sandwich, still in hand, unconsciously droops to my side. I stand like a statue in a
corner nave, gaze aloft.
A cloud? The question floats in my skull. Whatever it is, my skin tingles. My
lungs suck in one long, deep draught of air. The body prepares itself. The mind has yet to
follow.
This black behemoth is ponderously but surely moving down canyon. Towards
us.
In the Great American Southwestern Desert, July and August are monsoon
season. The towering afternoon thunderheads tumble in, edged brilliant silver and white
in the blinding sun, bellies gray and somber, cast against a sky so painfully blue,
grumbling and striking with flashes of raw electricity between firmament and space.
Their immense atmospheric landscape dwarfs the stony one below. If it rains within your
immediate sphere, the cliffs are painted shiny black or crystalline burgundy or molten
silver, unending ramparts on every side glinting like jewels in the slanting rays of the sun.
After the drama of the rain pouring down, filling the potholes of your senses, a glorious
quality of peace swells, penetrating all space. Pure, unadulterated magic. Moments of
speechless awe for somediscomfort for others. The river turns to chocolate colored
mud, splattering everyone and everythinga slippery mess. A safe path through rapids
becomes difficult to read, obscured and colored all wrong. Bathing is for the intrepid or
desperately stinky.
For me, being in a monsoon in the desert Canyon Country is to be transported
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back to primordial roots, everything washed clean. Catching an elusive flash flood is akin
to discovering buried treasure. Red or black or green waterfalls coalesce and roar down
side canyons that may have been silent for lifetimes. A gift from the Gods. Mud sweeps
everything in its path downstream, that much closer to the sea, swirling and cascading
into oblivion. One must take great care not to join the detritus. Secretly I smile when the
once mighty Colorado, Spanish forred-colored, returns for a time back to its pre-dam
personality. Once the spray settles, debris is left perched in unusual placeshigh in
treetops, jammed in cracks fifty feet and more overhead. People point and wonder at how
that tree got way the hell up there
If hiking a slot canyonthe sky a thin, meandering indigo thread directly
overheadwe boatmen covertly, nervously sniff the air for the telltale fecund smell of
wet earth, for somethingdifferent. Perhaps a peculiar sound where only the flawless
desert silence existed before. Something in your subconscious whispering like a
messenger
The sound of water.
It is, of course, better to sense the whisper well before it becomes a clarion call.
Guides too often tempt fate as it is. Personality trait. Keep an eye out at every bend for a
quick exit route. Watch for a climbable escape crack as you slither between the vertical
walls.
Better yetdont go. Camp high. Keep your gear packed and ready for hasty
gathering, especially your life jacket. Sleep on your boat, one eye open. Clear your senses
with one neat shot of highland single-malt.
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On the evening before we hit Havasu Creek on river trips, during the ritual pre-
hike talk at Last Chance camp, the peeps are told to pack their lunches, watch for
thieving ravens, choose their destination or no destination at allin preparation for the
much anticipated Havasu. This time of year, we also remind them of what to watch out
for in a flash: pay attention to the color of the water, the quality of its sound, its scent.
Maybe the crossings seem deeper, you cant see your feet. Anything at all suspicious
head uphill,fast.
Tie-up ropes of all ages and descriptions are stuffed in the cracks in the cliffs
encircling Havasu eddy, tied around small chockstones, and stained with the brown mud
of innumerable past floods. One or two pitons are hammered into the rock for backup,
and some very old rusty steel rings with bent carabiners. All of these are high off the
water, a story in itself for the observant. The eddy water is clear and blue-green, the
Colorado River darker, colder, flowing swiftly by into a small rapid. At the eddyline
where they mix, swirls of varied colors and temperatures whirlpool towards the river
bottom deep below. Not a place to be unless youre in a boat. Cliff upon tawny cliff
ascend to touch the deepest blue senses can ken. Boats tied to anchors, to each other,
spiderwebs of lines to achieve the common goals of keeping the rafts out of the way of
incoming or outgoing traffic, and of giving people access to and from the rock shelf that
serves for shore. A popular attraction, sometimes the boat count exceeds forty. Boats of
all shapes and sizes, a few big motor rigs, all so tightly packed at the height of the season
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that you could walk across without getting your feet wet. At the head of the cliff-bound
eddy the creek enters through a narrow passage, just a bit too tight for an eighteen-foot
raft. Occasionally cliff jumpers from upstream swim through the notch back to their boats
and a nap in the shade.
I aim for Mooney Falls, roughly a two-and-a-half hour hike, as often as I can.
Less people to watch out for. Usually the bolder, more adventurous ones. More
appreciative, which is, after all, why I do this. They gotta want it.
Plus I get to see Mooney again. I get to swim across its Caribbean-blue pool to
behind the falls, clamber along the rock ledge hidden just under the wave-tossed surface,
the clients following, not quite comprehending why. A hurricane of spray blasting us
back so were barely able to catch our breath. Then were diving through the falls,
turning over on our backs and gazing up at the cascade stretching high above. A rainbow
halo surrounds the brink of the falls, only visible from that exact spot in all the universe.
We then drift, laughing our way back towards the island in the seventy-two degree water.
A religious experience. You have to be ready for magic.
Rowing into Havasu eddy early on the morning of day ten, the ritual begins. Get
the Moonies, the long-hikers, off the boats and on the trail. Theyre psyched, focused,
and a pain in the ass. A guide leads them to negotiate the numerous and confusing ankle-
deep creek crossings. Once theyve left, the others can take their time, relax. The guides
taking the day off are the harbormasters; after everyone finally leaves them alone, they
will dally about, tie the rigs up well. Its a sort of meditation. On this particular early July
morning, there is only one other trip in the eddy, also from AzRA, the same company as
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ours. Theyre on a trip one day ahead of us, but weve caught up. They must be planning
on booking out the next couple of days on the high water.
Im rowing my snout boat on this trip, so I enter the eddy first, tie up at the
mouth, near to where the eddy line marks the boundary between Havasu Creek and the
Colorado River. The others slide into the eddy, tie up to my stern, and string themselves
end to end as my folks slide off the snout. The rigs wrap themselves tight into the eddy,
leaving room for other latecomers to jam in. Lorna, who is taking the day off, is the last
boat to tie up, jamming her raft tight into the hourglass-shaped vertical cliff at the far end
of the eddy, where the creek enters. Nice and quiet there, nobody stepping over her, good
shade all day. I strap up my oars, exchange my flip-flops for tennies, grab my daypack.
Everyone is boat hopping, smiling, preparing for a wonderful day.
Glancing at Dave Edwards, my great big Georgian-Welsh friend, I wave farewell.
He smiles his broad smile and turns his face upwards to the overhanging cliffs over
twenty feet above our heads.
Ever see anyone jump across? he says playfully.
Nope.
I saw Briggs do it once. He shakes his head.
Yeah, right. Six-foot-four and legs like Aspens. Not me. No way! Insane. See ya
later, boyo. Enjoy your day off.
Its a good start. We leave the others fiddling with their packs and beating off the
ravens. Id prepared the troops the night before, keeping them focused on getting out of
the hubbub so we could find our pace, not worry about stragglers. To sweat ourselves
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into the rhythm of moving through the desert. Destination oriented. We can meander
back afterwards, catch what we missed. In oases like Havasu, well scattered and well
hidden within the seemingly desolate landscape, you understood where the Navajo got
their ancient chant Walk In Beauty.
The hike up takes the usual two and a half hours. The clients grow silent as the
place sinks in. Halfway, more or less, we eat a snack, have a drink, and take some photos
at graceful, stair-stepped Beaver Falls. They always want to stop there. But Mooney
beckons. After Beaver, the magic gets wilder, the pace picks up. Everyone else stops at
Beaver. From here on in, its all ours.
Even after seeing it scores of times, Mooney still rocks me. As usual, I make them
stop at a little spring just before we get there, partly to fill up their bottles, partly to
increase the tension one last notch.
Finally able to glimpse our objective, all stop several times at each little
viewpoint, look at each other, back to the falls and cliffs, trying to comprehend.
Impossible. Silence reigns, except for the sound of water. The pace slows, as if not to
disturb something sacred.
As usual, at the pool they drop their daypacks, prepare to eat lunch, fumbling in
their packs as their gazes are drawn upwards.
Hold on, you guys. My little ritual.
Theyre a little confused. After all, were here, aren't we?
Would you like to have a religious experience?
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Um, you guys? Softly, calmly.
All faces instantly alert, concerned. Perhaps they are too used to my exuberance,
noting the abrupt change.
I think maybe we ought to eat as quick as possible, and then get moving back
downstream. I shrug my shoulders, deliberately notlooking at the sky.
Pat, one of two women on the hike, wants more information.
What? Seemingly simple, but I know that tone of voice. Shes not going to let it
go. Nor, on reflection, should she.
I point with my lips, Navajo style, up towards what Ive now decided is either the
blackest, thickest cloud ever imagined, or the apocalypse. All eyes look towards the
menacing black beast peeking over the lip of the falls. All faces, save two, pale. They get
it. Most of em anyway.
Um Pat hesitates. Is that a cloud, or what?
I dont answer directly. All watch the deliberations. I have my professional
mask on. Theres that damnpause thing that always seems to precede something
extraordinary in the offing. Like a chopper in the Canyon, its rarely good news.
Okay. Heres the deal. Thats the darkest damn cloud I think Ive ever seen in
my whole life. Probably raining like Noahs flood somewhere upstream.
As one they stand up, full attention now. In life, some are paralyzed by fear, some
energized. Well soon see.
Closing my eyes, I visualize. Upstream a few miles it is bucketing. Hard. All that
water, volumes and volumes of water, is hitting the hardpan and bedrock, sheeting off
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fast. It tumbles downhill, collecting mud and pebbles, then rocks and chunks of earth,
into the natural creek bed which had minutes before been bone dry. It is an irresistible
forcethe very force that, over the eons, created this entire landscape. It cannot penetrate
the hard earth and rock, and so rushes headlong downhill to hit the springs that form this
perennial creek and mingle with the turquoise water and turn it into gooey, thick red mud.
With endless supply from the heavens, it keeps growing and picking up speed and
relentlessly sweeping everything in its path. At the moment, the in its path part includes
us. Ive been through a number of flash floods before. You learn the signs. This one is
singular. I feel it in my spine.
I glance at some of their faces. Dont panic. Just be focused. Okay? In my way,
I pull my sunglasses down over my nose so they can see my eyes. My voice is dead calm.
They find that somehow scarier.
Dont stop. Listen for a, uh, well, a different sound. Keep looking upstream,
especially at crossings. Watch for a wave. Kinda like a beach surf only red. Sniff the air,
see if it seems muddy. Dont worry if you dont understand what that means. Youll
know it when you smell it. You notice any of those things, run to the highest point you
can. Fast. This is life and death, kids, I shit you not.
Nobody moves. Eyes shift back and forth from my face to the growing cloud,
trying to process the totality of instantaneous and absolute consequence. Theyve seen me
scouting big rapids. The warriors calm, welcoming the contest to come. I mean business.
And you? says Pat.
Replacing my sunglasses, I look down, cross my arms, then raise my face back to
meet hers. I have to think. Im supposed to be sweep. There are some other people here.
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I can catch you pretty quick. I need a minute or two to gather my thoughts.
The sweep is the last, the one who has the repair and first aid, the one whos
responsible, on river or trail, for making sure nobody is left behind, all are safe,
everythings copasetic so the trip leader can concentrate on leading. I absolutely love
being sweep, reliable backup, having time to smell the rocks. Legally, guides are only
responsible for the people in their own group. Morally is a different question.
As one, they rise in silence, pack and leave. I notice some of the sandwiches have
been discreetly put away, untouched.
I remain, pondering. Climb the cables up to the campground and warn them?
Mostly these folks, freshly hiked in from their cars and unfamiliar with the sure
consequences of Nature in the Grand Canyon, wont believe me anyway. Run past my
small group and warn everybody on the rafts downstream? Nope. Im sweep. Anything
happens to one of my guys if Im ahead, theyre screwed. Surely everyone downstream
has noticed that cloud? Itll hit me first, however big it is.
My right eyebrow rises.
This is going to happen, period. If I could be in two places at once, herding them
along and keeping well back to gauge and keep watch, I would.I love running this trail. I
usually give my folks about twenty minutes lead and dont catch up to them until just
before the waiting rafts.Im in no rush to catch up just yet.
While caught up in these thoughts, I stroll up to each little group of swimmers and
point to the cloud, explaining theres going to be a flood and they should probably get
back to their camps and warn their friends, move their gear. They look at me like Im
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some nut on the freeway, which is no more than I expect. Ive done my best, and I leave
them to their fates.
An inner clock has struck, compelling me to take off running downstream, free
and clear of doubt. Glancing briefly over my shoulder from time to time whilst
maneuvering amongst the grape vines and tangled trees, rocks, and crossings, I perceive
The Cloud stalking slowly, inexorably down canyon, consuming the sky as if starving.
There is unexpected color and movement just ahead. A bit stunned, I catch up with Bill
and Ted, two of my six. Ive only been going five minutes.
These two came together. Their impatience with the rest of us sheep is palpable.
They dont need no one telling them what to do.
Theyve left the track and are standing waist deep in the creek. Lovely spot, nice
little pool. Slowing to a trot, coming to an unsure halt poolside, I consider. Theyre hot
and tired, stopped for a dip. No harmin another world. I glance up. The brute is closing
in. Just upstream, all is obscured by a slanting grayish blur.
Be polite now.
What are you guys doing?
Its hot, Bill says, wiping his brow with a wet bandana.
Were tired, says Ted.
And the others?
They went on ahead.
That parts good news. I point upstream. See that? Thats rain. Lots and lots of
rain. I emphasize every word, failing to keep sarcasm at bay. Very soon a really, really
big flash flood is gonna come down on us. You get that? My arms are crossed in front of
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my chest; my sunglasses remain in place. Did you hear me when I said you had to keep
moving downstream?
They nod, ruffled.
Kinda like now.
I watch them disappear around a bend. A glance upstream, gauging the advance, a
glance around at the tranquility, soon to be rent. I again sort out all the alternatives,
possibilities. Part of this is just procrastination. I dont like them much. Id rather catch
them than hang with them. Besides, the imminent danger is so sublime.
I give them another fifteen minutes, for fun making a bet with myself the exact
point that we all four, they and I and the cloud, will meet. I find myself running once
again, my mind a welcome blank. Nothing left to do but follow this chosen path.
The trail whirs by, taking my focus. The buzz of a cicada, the flurry of two birds
chasing each other into a tangle of leaves, the warm odor of riotous vegetation.
Everything. My feet rhythmically pad the earth, joining my heart and breath, providing a
beat to the rising symphony. Everything is in readiness.
Bill and Ted stand at the edge of the cliff, cameras pointed at Beaver Falls. They
are oblivious, ignoring my arrival. On cue, as if a curtain were falling, the first heavy
raindrops pelt the dust at our feet. Then hail the size of marblescats eye marbles, the
big ones, like we used to play with back in Chicagobombard us, sounding like
applause.
Ouch. Ooooch. Ow!
Bill is bald. No hat. The hail is hitting him on the head and it hurts. He squints at
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me through the instantaneous maelstrom, looking miserable. Smiling, I reach for my
straw hat and offer it to him. He grabs it and jams it down, scowling. He and Ted try, in
vain, to thwart the hail and rain with canted arms and elbows, scrambling in circles and
crying out, looking like monkeys dancing. Then, form and color just under the big
cottonwood tree down there at the base of the falls catches my eye. Squinting against the
hail and rain, tying a bandana around my head, I can just make out the outsized form of
the baggage boatman from the other trip. Hes curled up on his side in the luxuriant grass,
under the thick leaves, by all appearances asleep. Shouting in this racket is useless. Ill
have to downclimb the cliffs and get closer.
Hey! What are we supposed to do now?!
I turn towards my guys. Deep breath.
Well. Looks like Im gonna have to get Steve out of bed. pointing to the shape
down below, just visible through the torrent.How on earth is he sleeping through this?
Damn big tree.
I was planning on stickin with you guys from here on, but plans have changed.
I like this option even less than they do. Just head down the switchbacks and cross the
creek. And could you do me a favor, please? Could you just keep moving? Sullenly,
they move off. I call to their backs, Remember what I told you about flash floods! Then
I turn to get Steve.
Climbing fast, I arrive under the shelter of the tree in minutes. Already soaked, I
shake his arm, and in an instant hes bolt upright, looking around, trying to place himself.
Steve is a big guy, like a walrus. He was a paying client for several years running, until
finally the owner gave him an unpaid baggage boat to row.
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STEVE, I yell, ITS GONNA FLASH BIG TIMECOME ON! WE GOTTA
GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! The falls adds to the cacophony.
He responds, MOLEYS GONE HIKING. HE TOLD ME TO WAIT UP.
Moley, another AzRA boatman, is working the other trip. Hes sweep for their
group.
I say, ILL WAIT FOR MOLEY. YOU GO ON AHEAD!
NO, I PROMISED ID WAIT. SO IM WAITING.
WHERED HE GO?
I DUNNO. SOMETHING ABOUT A SCARY PUPPET. BEAVER MAN OR
SOMETHING.
HOW LONG AGO?
A shrug. MUSTA FELL ASLEEP. Were both looking upwards, scanning the
cliffs, hoping.
Moleys head is screwed on good. Hell figure it out. Think fast. This guys
gonna be stubborn.
OKAY. OKAY. CLIMB A BIT UP THE CLIFFS WITH ME. YOU CAN STAY
UNDER AN OVERHANG AND WAIT FOR HIM THERE. OKAY?
He consents. I plunk him down in a safe spot and take off, on a mission.
Two minutes down the track I nearly run right over the top of Frick and Frack,
sheltering under a tiny overhang on the trail. Time is running out. So is my patience.
What the hell is wrong with you two?!
They are peeved, soggy, and now, at long last, apparently scared.
It hurts!
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What are you talking about?
The hail!
Okay. Fine. I take a deep breath. My sunglasses are off, my arms fold
themselves across my chest.
Listen to me.
Yep. Listening.
Im supposed to be sweep and now Ive left someone behind.
The hail stops, the rain pours on. A garnet red waterfall bursts over the cliff a
thousand feet above, cascades from ledge to ledge like a toy Slinky, and finally plunges
into our creek not thirty feet away. Another, then another, all along the scarp. The creek
turns pink, as if the water were mixed with blood. Yet it remains steady. Here, anyway.
This will change presently.
Oh! Oh my God!
Look you two. Im gonna stay here for a few minutes. I gotta think. Then Im
gonna come after you. Weve got three more crossings to make.
I thought there was four!
All we need to make is three. We can get back to the boats from the wrong side
if we need to.
They stand there. The creek alters color, chameleon-like, pink to red. The rowdy
rain, the rising creek, a hundred waterfalls, the wind, all combine into a deafening
crescendo.
If I catch you two again, you wont have to worry about no flash flood. Cuz Im
gonna fucking kill you myself.
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Moleyace river guide, trustworthy, capable, savvy, bald. We shared the high
water last year, him playing his fiddle at the Crystal concert. No worries there. I stand
protected by the tiny overhang, re-assessing, sorting, scoping. Really just an excuse to
observe the dazzling show. Red-graphite waterfalls pour over thousand foot cliffs far and
wide. Pour from every little notch in the Redwall, pour upstream and downstream, both
sides. There is so much energy its hard to breathe. The river is starting to rise. A few
inches, just a teaser. Not thick red mud yet, but.
Time congeals. I am running. One knee-deep crossing tells me what I need to
know: the water is higher, maybe only by a foot or so. And its still coming. Steady.
Another crossing. One more and home free. Half mile, more or less. Waterfalls and rain.
The sound of water, of feet splashing, of breath, blend into a rhythm. My mind wanders,
idiotically, to that Superman movie a few years back, the part where he outruns the train
to cross the tracks.
Top speed and cackling madly, now. The excitement is like a drug.I wonder how
fast a flash flood wave moves?
Faster than, say, a man can run?
I howl. The sound is not as much drowned by the racket as absorbed by it, melded
with it. I shake my head, demanding sanity, but it does not oblige. The conductor turns
the page, moves his baton. I suck in my breath at the climax of the holy symphony.
ThenThe Sound. Exultant roar of a lioness, triumphant crowd after a goal.
More attitude than simply vibrations in air, it compels me to turn, still running. A
massive, surreal wave, foaming and single-minded and animate, appears a hundred yards
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upstream. The smell of earth and rich fecundity. It is freakishly slow, frothing and filling
the space behind huge boulders, tumbling over drops, eddying, then rushing off again.
Deliberate. Purposeful. The water just behind the crest improbably rushes at twenty miles
an houran optical illusion. The laws of physics seem to require it to catch up and
overtake the wave, but it behaves itself and does not. My head jerks from trail to wave
and back again, gauging speeds.
Yup. No doubt about it. Im beating it.
No fuckin way dont even think about itWoohooooooooo!
I will play with it just so much, then head uphill and watch it go by. I swear.
The crossing comes into view a hundred yards downstream.
Bill and Ted stand midstream, backs to the wave, rinsing their fucking bandanas.
SHIT! Puffpuff. GET UP THE BANK!
My legs cannot move any faster. I glance at the approaching wave, thundering
like a freight train. The path is set.
GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK GET UP THE BANK! Glance
back. FLASH FLOOD! Seventy-five yards, fifty, glance back.
FLASH FLOOOOOOOD!
Startled, they turn and stareat me, not at their approaching doom. They start
towards the far bank. Too slow. I hyperventilate, oxygenating my blood. Twenty yards.
My eyes take in every rock, where my last steps must fall, where my surface dive will
land. Last glance upstream. Itll be close.
In mid-flight, just before entering the muddy blackness, I inhale and flick my
head rightwards for one last glimpse. Then Im underwateroh, the silence!and plowing
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hard before the image gels, and it is this: An explosion of red mud like a supernova
overwhelms the ten foot high virgin white limestone boulder thirty feet upstream.
I have five seconds.
My feet hit the river bottom running, like in the molasses of a silent dream, my
arms drag mud wildly, propelling me forward. Unexpectedly, air once again touches my
face, enters my lungs, the roar greets my ears. My guys stand facing me at what is just
now the bank, but in two seconds will be ten feet deep and ruthless. Their faces are
contorted, confused and angry. I grab their collars, feet scrambling to gain purchase,
leaning hard into them, and shove. The moment stretches far into my future, my past. Into
my story. Puppets and puppeteer. Not me and them; Life and not life.
They are flung backwards into a thicket of ash trees. I wrap my arms around the
nearest, high as I can reach, no time to choose for stoutness. The wave takes my legs out
from under me.
My tree holds.
Oh.wow! So thats what you meant by a flash flood!
A huge cottonwood tree, still alive and whole, leaves and branches rolling over
and over, ponderously tumbles by. I gain my footing, glancing over my shoulder. The log
footbridge from Supai Village floats by. Supai Village is ten miles upstream.
Far downstream, Jane, a middle-aged client with ample breasts, sits on a rock
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midstream, a few hundred yards upstream of the boats in the eddy. She has stopped at the
first creek crossing, just at the brink of a set of three stepped waterfalls, dropping about
fifteen feet. Very pretty spot. She faces downstream, concentrating on removing pebbles
from her sneakers. She stops, knots her brow, turns to see what it is that has tapped her on
the shoulderand is slapped off her perch like an insect, into muddy blackness.
Swept over the falls, violently tumbling over rocks and river bottom, she prays.
Back at the eddy, Lorna is napping on her raft, chocked into the hourglass. The
wave will hit her, first. Sharon, Shay, is on her raft, nearest the Colorado River at the
far end of the string. Unfortunately, shes also on the upstream side of the eddy, farthest
from an escape ledge.
Barry Lopez writes about the Native Eye, how an Eskimo paddling a skin kayak
across miles of featureless Arctic oceanno land in sight, family members tucked inside
and utterly dependantmust focus on moving his kayak towards his landing. Not tunnel
vision. Crystal clear, absolute attention. Yet, the merest change in the familiar salty
breeze, a wisp of cloud on the horizon, a flock of birds wheeling, and muscles and mind
become taut, alert, calculating. Ready.
The canyon narrows as it enters the last few hundred yards above the boats; the
wave responds by getting bigger. Muchbigger. Shays glance is drawn upstream.
Something is speaking to her. There is a presence over Lornas head. Towering, dark,
alive. The wave of mud approaches.
FLASH FLOOOOOOOD!!!
Edwards will later swear he saw Lorna leap from a dead sleep and in an instant fly
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over the boats to safety at the far end of a dozen rafts, feet never touching rubber or
frame. Fortunate, since The Wave engulfs her boat, straining, then snapping its lines and
wrapping it sideways into the next, then both into the next, and so on. The lines thrum
and stretch and snap, anchors pop out of cracks. Metal D-rings on the rubber rafts
disintegrate, ripping a hole in one, causing it to deflate and fold in half underneath itself.
The rafts are now wildly bucking in the raging tsunami. Shay screams over the
roar, WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO?
CUT EM! echoes from the cliffs.
For us guides, an unconscious hand-slap to the chestjust checkingis second
nature in times of need Yep, her life jacket is on. (Why? Who can say. Nobody ever
wears a life jacket when hanging out in the eddy.) She draws the knife from its scabbard
and starts cutting lines. The whole flotilla is being ripped and contorted, held in the brunt
of the torrent, but as lines are cut, it swings out, pendulums from my snout still tied to the
far ledge. There guides gawk and scramble, grabbing life jackets and throw lines. Shay
slithers and leaps across the lurching mass and gladly joins them. The boats now strain in
the raging current of the Colorado at the head of a rapid running at forty-five thousand
cubic feet per second. Off my single bowline.
Which is taut, worried to the point of rupture. The guides stand, absorbing the
outrageous scene, trying to wrap their heads around it. As always, some react swiftly,
with poise and sureness; others follow.
The rope will only hold for a second or two. Lowry, strong, reliable, taking it all
in like a cat, leaps onto the closest boat, followed by two young acolytes. The boys had
been practicing the whole trip, clients observing their mentorhow he rowed, his stature
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amongst his peers. They crab crawl and clamber over the surging tubes and flailing oars
to reach the three farthest outlying boats. Dave cuts the lines, yelling at the boys to grab
rowing seats and hold on tight. The impatient current snaps the lines, releasing the rafts,
all that pent up energy jerking them fiercely. They grab the oars and madly row their craft
into the only existing eddy, against the cliffs below.
Suzanne also leaps. Shes wearing her own familiar costume of flops, Navajo
style print skirt and lacey blouse, her signature southwestern turquoise necklaces, rings,
and bracelets, all highlighted by her flaming jumble of red hair. As Lowry cuts his boats
free, she severs the straining line closest to her. A jumble of four boats, all fully loaded
and one half-deflated, disappears around the corner, containing one determined woman.
This leaves just my snout and two other rafts, plus a clutch of guides feeling like
cowboys on foot.
Dave Edwards stares downstream, worried about Suzy. His back is to the eddy.
There is a shout.
BOD-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Joel points. Time stretches, as it will. In one fluid motion, Dave turns. A shadow
below the waters surface resolves into an image: swirling hair. It is sensuous, a siren
calling him, hair framing the silhouette of a face with haunting eyes. He dives, two
hundred and fifty muscular pounds of resolve.
On shore, eyes scan the water for an anxious second. Two seconds. Three. Four.
Two spluttering faces appear, noses just above the surface. Dave has Jane in the
classic life-saving holdturned away from him so she cannot pin his arms, his right arm
underneath her armpit and across her chest, clasping his left hand with his right, locked in
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solid. Hes wearing his worn, old, lightweight, comfortable (and useless) lifejacket. They
get air infrequently, heads submerging through each wave. Seconds count.
Joel is lithea runner. His track is an uneven rock ledge. He wears flip-flops; he
is encumbered by a life jacket and has a throw bag in his hands. Nonetheless, he hurtles
over the terrain, pacing the swimmers, staring into Daves eyes. Waiting. They careen
two feet away, but they might as well be on the moon.
In an instant itll be too late.
In between repeated submersions, Dave spits. Then, with absolute clarity, says,
Hit me in the face, boyo
Whap! The rope appears, right between their heads. Dave, briefly releasing his
left hand, stuffs the rope deep between his molars, clamps down, then locks Jane back in.
They are traveling at ten miles an hour.
Others reach Joel and hold onto him, ready for the pull. One chance, one eddy.
All comprehend the need for slack, a pendulum to take some of the force. Once they hit
that eddy the rope will rip out Daves teeth and theyre goners.
Graceful as penguins, they swing in, are gathered ashore, and collapse into
welcoming arms.
Later, in her soft southern accent, Jane will tell the tale. I knew I was going to
drown in that wave. Then, God answered my prayers. He grabbed me by my breasts, and
tugged me to the surface so I could breathe. Then I was on the crest of this huge red
wave, and I was headed into a narrow notch just choked with boats. Then, this tiny figure
I just know it was an angelflew over the boats. It gave me hope. I hit the first boat
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and went back underwater. It was just black. I bumped and banged underneath those
boats, and I just knew that was gonna be it. Then I felt myself swirling around and the
water got really cold and I could almost see light. Well, I knew what that was. The
Colorado. I was prepared to meet my maker, but this huge shadow appeared above me
another angeland tackled me so hard it hurt. But that pain was a blessing, and I wasnt
gonna let go, no sir!
Downstream, Suzy gets to work. There is no urgency. She unties, then reties her
rafts end to end, freeing her to row the tail end one. She hauls one rafts deflated half up
and over itself and ties it to the frame so it doesnt drag in the water. She then loops all
the spare lines into one nice, long coil on the back deck and aims for shore.
She attempts eddy after eddy. Each time her rear boat hits the undisciplined and
powerful eddy line, the seventy-foot rig uncontrollably spirals back out into the current.
Suzanne is strong and sure. She reads current better than anyone. As a woman used to
working in a mans worldand used to using finesse and skill, having a certain bond
with riversshe reprocesses. Considers. Drinks some water. Decides. She knows the
river well and can visualize a place downstream on the left where a slow current will
bring her near some low cliffs without an eddy. She hopes the cliffs are mostly
underwater, presenting a sloping shore.
Her destination appears downstream. Committing utterly on a singular day of
utter commitment, she ships her oars as she nears shore, gathers the coils of line, leaps off
the boats moving at eight miles an hour, and starts running in her flops and skirt amidst
the desert scrub. Red hair flies. Desperately she seeks something solid to tie to. Nada. Not
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a thing. Fragile cacti and small, loose rocks. Coils whip out of her arms, whoop, whoop,
whoop, rapidly diminishing her options. The flotilla keeps moving relentlessly
downstream.
There is a solitary large boulder at the terminus of the bench. She has tied a
monkeys fista large, round final knot at the end of the rope. The last coil lurches out
of her arms. She grabs the monkeys fist and jams it into the lone crack in that lone rock
as the boats pull it taut. The force wedges her hand into the sharply eroded limestone. The
boats settle, freeing her now torn hand.
There is now time to tend to her wound, cover the exposed raw meat, rummage
for food. She tethers the boats to shore in a spiders web of rope, makes a sandwich. Itll
be a while before others arrive.
Back upstream, the rain has stopped. Im shaking with coldthat, and the shock
of having death sit on my shoulder once again, only to leave me behind, once again.
Sodden with mud, I stand amidst the trees, leaning against one. Steady now. It is good to
feel the rough bark. Something solid.
Responsibilities. Moley and Steve are upstream. The Colorado is only a short hike
away, maybe a mile and a half or so. Where are the others? For sure someones been
swept away and drowned. Bill is shivering. I give him my rain jacket. He now has that
and my hat, with never a thank you. I must keep moving or Ill get hypothermic. My gut
aches for the others, but we have to get moving. I cannot, however, leave Bill and Ted
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(much as Id like to).
The trail is now in the river, underneath all that liquefied mud. Downstream there
will be parts of it exposed higher up on the bank, but for now we must crawl through
Catclaw Acacia and Mesquite, small trees lovely to the eyefrom a distance. After all,
desert plants must defend themselvesnot much to eat in these parts. Catclaw is rather
self-explanatory. The thorns on the mesquite are different, long and straight, kinda like
IV needles. Our only route is choked with these. Waist height and below, prickly pear
and fishhook cacti litter the ground. Blood leaks from countless scratches and holes, like
weve been flailing ourselves in some religious swoon. I ignore Bill and Teds loud and
constant complaints until they finally shut up.
Finally, we reach a section of trail above the flood. It has abated a couple of feet
in the past half-hour. Were getting strangely used to the clamor and feverish motion of
red-brown water. Fish flop in puddles along the recently exposed trail. I mindlessly scoop
them sideways back into the river with a flick of my foot as I hike; they bounce and
disappear in a splash.
We round a corner and stumble into a small knot of clients. Huddled and cold,
some sit on rocks, some stand. The men cradle their heads in their palms, staring at their
feet. The women softly whimper, arms crossed for warmth or around their companions
shoulders, comforting each other.
Oh! Its a guide! Jeffe! Thank God! All faces look to me.
Is everyone okay? Has anyone been washed away?
No. Everyones fine. But we were stuck! Were cold and wet! And we cant get
back to the boats!
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weirdly dressed and posed like mannequinshalf bent, limbs akimbo, mouths half open,
a river fashion display.
Decades later, Dave, hand clutching my arm as if he were there once more, would
describe the mood thusly: Boyoit wasChilling.
Voices cannot overcome the bellow of rapids. Sometimes communication
between one boat and another, or a boat and a swimmer, is critical, so river guides use
hand signals. A pat on the head means OK. Its a question-response sort of thing. One
pat deserving another.
Clearly, theyre expecting bad news. Unable to help myself, I smile, pat my head,
and point with my other thumb over my shoulder behind me. They glance at each other,
then back to me. One pats his head back, face puzzled, slowly rising from his crouch.
Faces turn towards each other, mouths stir.
One by one, my herd tops the rise. The guides begin counting on their fingers.
Someone produces a roster. Rob, pen in hand, checks off names. Smiles appear, backs are
slapped.
Presently, Moley materializes, bringing up the rear. All accounted for.
Soon, we are yelling across the abyss. We cannot make ourselves understood over
the roar of the floodwaters in the final narrows. Joel points downstream towards the boat
eddy. Oh. Right. We move off in that direction.
Where a dozen boats were, there are threemy snout and two eighteen footers,
swaying in the current.
Waitll you hear, someone shouts.
Waitll YOUhear, I respond.
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Reserves are waning. People are wet and tired and hungry. It is getting late. Time
for stories later; this one is still taking shape. Following a brief discussion, Moley and I
set up our end of a Tyrolean Traverse. Joel, like myself an ex-Outward Bound instructor,
sets up the far side. We swap stories as we work, omitting certain delicate details,
watched by curious and anxious clients. There are three more rafts in the eddy
downstream, plus a motor rig that happened by. Theyd like to get going, get their own
passengers to camp and fed. Tuckup camp is ten miles downstream.
The Tyrolean Traverse: A taut rope, fixed across some terrible abyss (naturally),
to which climbers affix themselves in a sit-harness and slide themselves with pulleys
from one side to the other. Exhilarating funfor climbers.
I look at the thirty-plus people; they look back, suddenly startled. Darkness is
descending, and the helpful motor rigger is getting understandably impatient. Usually,
when training student climbers, I spend quite a bit of time on the particulars of knots,
safety, technique. No time for that, now.
I scan the huddled crowd, seeking the most squeamish. I gently lead her by her
elbow to the taut line. Nobody speaks. I have her step into the improvised harness, clip
her into the line.
Innocently, she asks So, uh, what are we doing?
Darlin, you just hold onto this rope here. Yep. Thats it.
Then I shove her off the cliff.
It is a short distance to the other side, and before her terrified scream gets past her
lips, shes already in the arms of Lorna and Joel.
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No savior appears for the others. Just us scraggly half-clad hippy boatmen.
Gradually, efficiently, reluctantly, the rest follow.
The motor rig leaves. Its a half hour by motor, an hour by oar, maybe less with
the high water. There, at Tuckup, dry clothes, hot food, tea, sleeping bags, toiletsand
normalityawait. Once all are across, Moley and I frenetically disassemble the gear in the
last of the light. We toss the mess across to the others waiting on the ledge. They gather it
up and turn to clamber over the ledges into the shadows.
Almost over. Then it hits me.
I look over the edge, stand bolt upright and turn to Moley. He points a finger at
me, scowling, and says, Dont you say a word. I aint sticking around to think about it,
and leaps.
He is lithe, but he barely makes it, all scrambling feet and arms, pebbles knocking
loose and splashing into the dark water below. Silent and now alone, I shake my head,
mouth twisting into a crooked grin.
Deep breath, jump.
We pile wordlessly into our boats and cast off. Floating along on the moonlit
Colorado, cliffs drift by like sentinels. Small rapids are rowed by heart. The Black Cloud,
having only barely reached the main gouge of the Canyon, has now entirely vanished,
leaving an impeccable corridor of brilliant stars, like sea foam punctuated by the crescent
moon, a pendant hanging on a necklace. There is soft conversation; we share trail mix.
Each of us considers crag and sky and the essence of things. I listen to the sounds of
oarlocks squeaking gently, oars dipping, caressing the water. Sweet music.
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My ears hear Tuckup rapid. Not much of a rapid reallybut in the dark with nine
passengers on a snout?
Catching eddies is a special skill, second nature usually. But sometimes theyre a
bitch. Sometimes you miss one. In a snout, theyre pretty much always a struggle. Add
fast current, weight, darkness I really dont need any more epics today. Downstream
and to our right, dozens of flashlights and dancing fires light up the cliffs like a Revival
Meeting. It looks like a small city, all gaily lit up like that.
I want it.
I set the boat angle to catch the eddy, glance over my shoulder.
What on earth?...are those fireflies in the water there?
In any case, thats about where I need to be. I await my timing, pull hard.
The eddy, like a magnet, magically draws us in, much to my surprise. But there is
more. I now see that my strong and capable fellows, who were chest deep in the eddy,
have reached out, grabbed my boat, and pulled us in. A silhouette with a glowing Cyclops
eye ties us up; others leap aboard, embrace me. One offers a welcome bottle.
Relax, friend. Youre home now.
Notfireflies
Headlamps. Reflected in the night eddy.
This. Oh, this. Worth every struggle, every fear. My pards.
Boats and peoplefive river trips worth, spread out like refugees. Delicious
cooking smells drift across the dunes. Suzy runs up and gives me a bear hug. Her laugh is
all the welcome Ill ever need. I notice her bandaged hand. She shakes her head, smiling,
points to the paddle raft dry-docked in the sand, on its edge and being patched by
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firelight. A crowd of boatmen, beers in hand, surround it, passing a bottle. Tired as we
are, boatmens sleeping bags will remain lonely for a while yet.
Everyone okay?
She tells me of Jane and Dave and Joel.
No way! is all I can say. (This is what everyone will say as I retell the tale in the
years to come.)
Next morning, after sleeping in and re-rigging and breakfast, we separate, smiling
and waving and hooting, and slide back into the current on our separate ways towards
Lava Falls.
Lava is the largest whitewater maelstrom on one of the worlds most renowned
rivers. It drops over fifteen feet in seventy-five yards. It is filled with boat-flipping holes,
colossal waves, and bone-crushing volcanic rocks. It is now running high and furious at
forty-five thousand cubic feet per second. Enough to make any river runner queasy.
We pass Vulcans Anvil: a shiny, black basalt obelisk sitting placidly,
deceptively, a mile above Lava, dead smack in the center of the river. The core of an
ancient volcano, once violent, the Anvil is now an altar, the serene recipient of wayward
boaters prayers and offerings. We float that final mile of quiet water, hushed and
anticipatory, then round the ultimate bend.
Once again, we are met by the sound of water.