The Emerald Mile: The Epic Story of the Fastest Ride in History Through the Heart of the Grand Canyon (50 page)

I.
He later turned out to be fine.

It was impossible not to think of the river as having a will and intent of her own . . . She seemed not only willful but demonic, bent on the simple act of drowning us.

—J
OE
K
ANE

O
N
Saturday, June 25, dawn arrived with the hot and crystalline transparency that rules the high desert in midsummer. By 7:00 a.m.,
the temperature was already in the low eighties and climbing rapidly toward one hundred. There was not a breath of wind anywhere along the North Rim, and
the air was so clear that on the outskirts of Hurricane, visibility extended for twenty-four miles. Deep inside the canyon, however, the sun had still not yet topped the rim when a group of thirty-three passengers and guides roused themselves from their sleeping cots at a camp located four miles upstream from Crystal. Half an hour later, when they sat down to a breakfast of pancakes and orange juice, they were unaware that the events of the next several hours would mark each of them in profound and disturbing ways and would, for a select handful, change their lives forever.

Tour West was a mom-and-pop outfitter owned by a tight-knit family of Mormons who ran the river in motorized rafts equipped with a pair of inflatable side tubes that made each boat resemble a giant, floating hot-dog bun. This particular expedition, which had departed Lee’s Ferry less than forty-eight hours earlier, was scheduled to last only five days, and the passengers, almost all
of whom were seeing the canyon for the first time, came from all over the map. An attorney from Michigan named Walt Gallaher had booked the excursion for himself and five members of his family, including his wife, Nancy, his two sons, Matt and Scott, his daughter, Colleen, and her husband, Bob Paparelli. Four middle-aged women who had grown up together in Butte, Montana—Sally Lonner, Lin Sultzer, Marjie Hay, and Mary Ann McNammee—were on the river to celebrate the fact that all of them were turning fifty that year. In addition to fourteen other clients who hailed from as far away as Hawaii, there was also an elderly couple from Colorado, Bill and Ellen Wert, who had joined the trip because
Bill was fascinated by geology and photography and wanted to capture as many images of the canyon as possible.

Like many outfitters, Tour West catered to its passengers’ differing attitudes toward white water by designating one raft as the “adventure boat” and the other as the “sedate boat.” Dave Stratton, the boss’s son, was at the helm of the adventure boat, which carried most of the kitchen equipment and the camping gear. This raft, which included the Gallaher family, would seek out more thrilling action by going through the bigger waves. By contrast, the second boat—which was equipped with several extremely heavy ice chests filled with much of their perishable food—was supposed to confine itself to the calmer parts of the river and attempt to avoid the biggest features of the rapids.

This sedate raft, which included Bill Wert and his wife, together with the Butte Ladies and at least half a dozen others, was captained by Darrel Roberson, a garrulous guide who was leading the expedition and whose relaxed drawl and casual vibe put everyone at ease. Roberson was able to keep up a constant stream of instruction and banter over the sound of his motor because, although the boat was his responsibility, the helm was manned by a twenty-six-year-old rookie who was about to complete a crucial step along the path to becoming a full-fledged river guide.

Layne Parmenter had grown up in Idaho and had already guided nearly forty trips on the Salmon River. Before being allowed to handle the big water inside the Grand Canyon, however, he was required to complete three trips under the supervision of a senior guide, who would coach him through the rapids. This was Parmenter’s third supervised canyon run, and if all went well, it would be his last trip as a trainee.

For two days, the rafts had raced downstream on the highest water any of the guides had ever seen, while the passengers gave themselves over to the simple seductions of moving through the canyon by day and sleeping out under the stars at night. Stratton’s boat led the way as they shot through the Roaring Twenties, past Nankoweap, and down to the confluence with the Little Colorado at Mile 61.5, unaware of the dramatic wrecks that were piling up farther below at Mile 98.

There were no mishaps or close calls. But as they finished up their breakfast on Saturday morning, Roberson informed the group that they were about to tackle some of the largest rapids in the canyon, and that regardless of whether the passengers were in the adventure boat or the sedate boat, everyone should prepare to see some action at Crystal.

A
ccording to several of the most experienced guides in the canyon, by that morning
Crystal was three times more dangerous than it had ever been, and the breakout move to avoid the hydraulic jump was an order of magnitude more difficult. That sort of math was subjective, of course, and impossible to verify, and perhaps it was the small details that most vividly conveyed the ferocity of what was unfolding inside the rapid.

Few of the guides who had spent the previous night camped above the rapid had been able to sleep because of the roar of the explosion wave, and several had taken the unusual precaution of
duct-taping foam padding around their bottles of gin and tequila. One of the most surreal but emblematic moments actually occurred a few days later, when a boatman named
Joe Sharber heard a splash while he was conducting his scout. He looked down to see that a beaver had climbed out of the water and was waddling through the rocks along the shore.

Oh, hell
, thought Sharber,
even the beavers are portaging.

When the Tour West group reached the glassy lake just above Crystal around 9:30 a.m., an eclectic assortment of rafts and kayaks was already moored inside the little cove along the right shore, just above the point where the water broke. Stratton, who was in the lead, pulled in first, and because space was so tight, Parmenter and Roberson were forced to tie off to his stern. As the passengers disembarked, Walt Gallaher stared quizzically up into the clear, cloudless sky and wondered why he was hearing the sound of thunder.

When everyone reached the top of the scouting ledge, they were met by a group of boatmen from half a dozen different oar-raft companies, all of whom were waiting for the opportunity to observe the motor rig make the run before taking a crack at the rapid themselves. Stratton and his team made a thorough job of the scout,
spending almost forty-five minutes examining the rapid from at least three different angles, all the while discussing their strategy. As the guides shuffled from one spot to the next, they were shadowed by several passengers who were eager to get a sense of what the plan would be. Although it was hard to hear, two of those passengers discerned that a difference of opinion had arisen among the guides about how the rapid should be run.

Roberson and Parmenter, it seemed, were both advocating something unusual. They proposed initiating their run on the far left side of the river, then
cranking their throttles and making a bold forty-five-degree cut across the current toward the right shore, which would build enough momentum and speed to carry them decisively over the lateral wave and into the safety zone. This idea was firmly opposed by Stratton, who was in no mood to take that kind of risk. As the son of the company’s owner, Stratton’s opinion carried decisive weight, so he pulled rank and politely
explained to his colleagues they were all going to stay as close as possible to the right shoreline by executing a “turnaround run,” a move that would slam the bows of their motor rigs into the shallows along the right shoreline just below the head of the rapid, then permit the current to swing their sterns around and pull them through backward. The maneuver was tricky and a bit crude, but done properly it was the perfect technique for hugging the shore and avoiding the chaos in the center of the river.

“See the tammies that are in the water? You’ve got to be running right over those,” Stratton told Parmenter while pointing out the top of a tamarisk tree on the right side of the rapid. “Just stay out of the main current,” he warned.
“You get in there and it’s over.”

With the plan firmly set, they all walked back down to the boats. But as everyone was clambering aboard and preparing to launch, one of the passengers, Ellen Wert, remained on the shore, expressing second thoughts.

Ellen was concerned about her husband. Although Bill was in excellent shape for a sixty-two-year-old retiree—an avid outdoorsman who loved to hike, backpack, and ski—she knew that he was not a strong swimmer. Calling out to one of the guides, she announced that they preferred to walk around the rapid and be picked up downstream. By now, however, Bill was already aboard Parmenter’s raft and was urgently motioning for his wife to climb aboard, assuring her that everything would be fine.

“What’s the use of going on a river trip,” he exclaimed, “if you walk around the rapids?”

Shaking her head, she complied.

Parmenter’s rig then began easing out of the eddy. Stratton stayed put, intending to delay his own launch by several minutes to give Parmenter plenty of space and avoid the possibility of a collision.

From his mooring, Stratton watched as the sedate boat, with the trainee at the helm, lumbered out into the river, where it was swiftly seized by the current and snatched from view.

I
nside Parmenter’s raft, the Butte Ladies had taken up the first four positions in the bow. Mary Ann McNammee and Lin Sultzer were sitting in the front; Marjie Hay and Sally Lonner were directly behind them. Bill and Ellen Wert
were positioned toward the back on the right side, and the rest of the passengers—half a dozen of them, including a couple with two children in their early teens—were spread out in the middle. Roberson was sitting in the stern, and Parmenter, who was wearing a blue-and-white baseball cap, was standing in the motor well with his hand on the stick.

During the initial moments as they pulled away from shore, the Butte Ladies felt as if they were at the start of a roller coaster as it clicked hollowly toward the top—a giddy sensation in which anticipation and fear braided together in a way that was scary but also thrilling. As the cliffs along the shore scrolled past, they could hear the dull roar growing louder. Up ahead, the dark green water rounded into a smooth hump before dropping off a lip. The rapid itself was still invisible, but they could see spray being hurled into the air, an indication of the violence and fury just below.

As the current picked up speed, everyone grew tense, and
one of the Butte Ladies cried out, “Let ’er buck!” Then they were inside the smooth, V-shaped tongue and rapidly accelerating. Within seconds, they could feel the wind rushing past their faces. No one said a word, and each person faced forward, staring intently ahead.

Halfway down the tongue,
Roberson yelled, “Down and in!” Everyone hunkered as low as possible on the aluminum decking, grabbing firmly onto the straps. In this position, it was difficult for the passengers to see much of anything over the huge side pontoons, and almost impossible to hear any communication above the encroaching roar of the white water.

They had no idea that neither of their guides had properly judged the velocity and power of the downstream current. The consequences of this, however, were about to be demonstrated to them in the most graphic manner imaginable.