"Nature's Great Crescendos"

Like an orchestra reaching its final passage, proactively similar to the last glimmer of sunlight before a Total Solar Eclipse, indeed comparable to the birth of a child -- and representative of the entire Grand Canyon -- experiencing the whitewater wave train down the right side of Lava Falls is one of Nature's Great Crescendos.

. . . experiencing the whitewater wave train down the right side of Lava Falls is one of Nature's Great Crescendos.

As one approaches Lava, the terrain becomes foreboding in a way not previously seen here; it is a unique, surrealistic blend of unearthly rock and "upstart" volcanoes. Gone are the steep, ageless walls of granite and schist. In fact, the landscape becomes rather open and "well lit." The shoreline consists of "youthful" lava flows and walls of basaltic columns. This material only dates back perhaps one million years, making it the most recent geologic deposition in the entire Grand Canyon. Two miles above Lava, a volcanic dike ("Vulcan's Anvil") appears mid-river. All boatmen feel an obligation to at least touch this remnant of the ancient flow; perhaps for good luck, perhaps to break the omnipresent fear. Here the river is "dead" flat, like the calm before a tornado, or as in the eye of the hurricane. One more bend, and you hear it. Not unlike a freight train run amok, its roar is deafening, even in this somewhat open area.

In the guide book (a rather dry source) can be found the following notation:

Lava Falls (Vulcan)
Drop -- 37 feet
Rating -- 10

[Not "10" (the highest rating) sometimes, perhaps at high water, but just "10'".]

What is seen from river level when approaching the gigantic Grand Canyon rapids is essentially nothing at all. That is, such rapids drop off so severely that what is viewed has been named a "horizon line," a smooth sort of edge across the river, with nothing visible beyond (or rather, below). One is able to discern the rapid easily by its sound, however. Typically, when such a rapid is confronted the boats pull over; in the case of Lava, the participants walk down the right bank for a better view.

This activity is called "scouting." I find it generally distasteful, but necessary. The drop at Lava Falls is particularly severe, and the rapid accordingly "invisible" from river level; these factors are so obvious that not scouting such rapids (even for seasoned veterans of the Canyon) would be idiocy.

The group, applying this simple logic, pulls over, river-right, just above the thundering cataract. We are in the presence of the great one, the great eliminator -- it's the rubber match, 4th down and a foot, everything on the line -- and a great tension fills the air. Lava Falls is the reason why all river runners go through all the motions for all of that time before. The Salmon can be big, there are a lot of challenging rocks in the Selway and Middle Fork, and large waves exist in Hell's Canyon; but Lava Falls is the Grand Kohuna of all of the big ones. One look, and I could tell that this rapid is the Granddaddy of them all.

The Salmon can be big, there are a lot of challenging rocks in the Selway and Middle Fork, and large waves exist in Hell's Canyon; but Lava Falls is the Grand Kohuna of all of the big ones. One look, and I could tell that this rapid is the Granddaddy of them all.

The ground is actually quivering beneath our feet; the group stumbles over the rough lava rock, and climbs the right bank for a "better" view. This vantage reveals at least three truths:

Truth #1 -- There is an absolutely-must-be-avoided ledge hole (straight down about 20 feet, by our shoreline estimates) across 2/3 of the middle of the river. This ledge hole so clearly must be avoided that I refuse to look at it again. (I wish now that I had reviewed it more carefully, as its power possesses great beauty.) If one were to enter this obstacle a sure endo flip would occur, followed by perhaps numerous recycles through the (essentially stopped) water directly below the ledge. It would be like going over a not so small waterfall. No downstream water flow whatsoever. Actually, there exists an upstream flow back into the ledge. This route is rather uninviting.

Truth #2 -- The left side run, although "easy" (that is, if you "see" it from river level), requires a precise entry in extremely shallow water. If one would "pop an oar" from its rigid stanchion such a delicate entry would be rendered impossible. If this entry is off (perhaps by only a few feet), the boat would head directly over the ledge with no velocity. This route seemed too chancy and unpredictable, although it is considered the "proper" run. Such a move (in the mirror-image) is required in a rapid named Crystal -- I missed and became much too intimate with the nastiest quarter-mile on the river. I'd rather not repeat that fate.

Getting intimate with Crystal Rapid

Truth #3 -- The right side of Lava, at least at this water level, is the only choice.

A bit of history is valuable here. In all the whitewater discussions, over thousands of beers under hundreds of inky black Grand Canyon skies, all of the pundits of river lore have always come to the same sane logical conclusion; the right side of Lava is lunacy. This run is what legends are about; it is the quintessential demonstration of craziness. And we've decided to try this side. From a slightly closer vantage, we now discuss (or rather, we must yell to each other to communicate; the sound is deafening) the run seriously.

1 -- Entry would be just right of the horrendous ledge hole and . . .
2 -- the boats would probably pivot to the right, which would set one up for . . .
3 -- the many huge lateral waves forming off the right bank (all of which could flip any of the boats easily) and if successfully negotiated would lead our crafts directly to the . . .
4 -- Notorious Cheese-Grater Rock, the site of countless shredded boats, numerous trashed metal rowing frames, and even death.

This rock, this sharp lava jutting into the base of the most impressive rapid anywhere, was seemingly placed here as the final ultimate challenge. If one is lucky or skilled enough to navigate the river to this final summons, then that "fortunate" soul would be greeted by a 25-foot wall of churning river and foam. Adding to the drama, the wave occasionally recedes, thereby revealing the true nastiness of that jut of lava. If one's boat were to meet the wave in its receded form, it is conceivable that the unfortunate watercraft could rightly land directly on the rock. This wouldn't be advised.

The group decides to run in two groups. All boaters but Gary are running right, so he will go second (immediately after Jerry) and position himself as a rescue boat on the left below the torrent. Jerry will be first, Doug third, Steve and myself fourth. We float ever so slowly to the brink, standing up on our boats to visually assure the proper entry. Jerry drops over, seemingly a bit left of the proper mark. One bob up, two bobs, and he's gone. Doug enters slightly (perhaps a foot) right of Jerry. Again, one bob, two bobs, and gone. All boats appear to enter properly, but we are only able to ascertain the entries of fellow participants from river level. After entry, the boats disappear over the horizon line.

We float to the brink of forever. This is it.

We float to the brink of forever. This is it. After 13 days of sun, rock, and whitewater, we are on the edge, the brink; then suddenly, with one last small correction (I'm pleased with the seemingly perfect entry) we're in it. Hit the entry, rotate, first lateral wave, push, brace, second lateral wave, push with as much strength as I can garner, perfectly straight into these, then the third (larger than the others, as the river is now turning toward the rock of destiny) straight again, then damn, the right oar pops off the pin, next lateral, straight, put the oar back on, there, and I look in awe toward that fabulously beautiful, ever-surging (thank goodness) gigantic final lateral, the protector of the Cheese-Grater Rock, the conclusive guardian at the base of the rapid of destiny, and we are absolutely perfect, straight, rowing, climbing -- we are beholden before it at its largest -- the power and the glory, the pure essence of whitewater. Time stands still.

. . . and we are absolutely perfect, straight, rowing, climbing -- we are beholden before it at its largest -- the power and the glory, the pure essence of whitewater. Time stands still.

I'll never forget that image, not in small part due to the fact that it's the last image I have of Lava Falls, because just as we climb to the top of this 25-foot behemoth, something happens. I'm now in the water, under the boat, left rear, with some sort of loose equipment nearby. Damn, after all this, we've flipped -- no, it's the loose remainder of our spare life jacket. I reach instantly above the rear tube and feel the upright boat. Although still bouncing through the final 15-foot tail waves of this tremendous torrent, I feel sure we're out of the "big" stuff. As I emerge, a confused Steve moves to the rear of the completely swamped raft and pulls me aboard. We row for shore.

Lava Falls did not disappoint. (I'm sure it never does.) We had negotiated the feared and revered right side of Lava; indeed, we were in some very small fashion, for that minute amount of time, a part of the Big Show.

. . . indeed, we were in some very small fashion, for that minute amount of time, a part of the Big Show.

 

 

Copyright Willis Greiner, 1994. All rights reserved.