“I believe there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.” — Henry David Thoreau
Everyone fears Skull Rapid and the Room of Doom, but at this water level, Sock-it-to-me is the more difficult rapid,” Brian Murdock explains as we cinch the last of our dry bags to our rafts before pushing off from camp. “The rapid isn’t what tends to get people in trouble — my dad once had a perfect run and then flipped his raft on the Magnetic Wall at the bottom — it just pulls boats right in.”
All four of Brian’s siblings who are here, Creed, Todd, Tyler and McKell, have similar stories of witnessed carnage on the Magnetic Wall from their many runs through Westwater Canyon, northeast of Moab.
Yesterday was officially the last day of summer and Creed’s 40th birthday. Creed’s wife, Jen, orchestrated this surprise trip on his behalf to commemorate the milestone. Sixteen of us floated five lazy miles to Upper Cougar Camp, where we served a feast, grilling steaks, pork chops and chicken breasts while chocolate birthday cakes baked in Dutch ovens. Ignoring our presence, a great blue heron surreptitiously waded along the opposite bank, fishing in golden evening light. After dinner, laughter echoed from the tight canyon walls as spellbinding flames flicked and flashed in the night. Dark stormy skies rumbled with distant thunder. Rapids roiled just around the bend, waiting. We all slept deep and well beside the river.
Though the Murdocks run this stretch of the Colorado River regularly, many of us haven’t seen Westwater Canyon for years. The last time my wife, Allie, and I were here was 20 years ago. Allie was training a crew of freshly hired greenhorn guides for her dad’s rafting company, World Wide River Expeditions. I was the scrawniest of the rookies.
That March we rafted the 16-mile canyon six times in three days. It is all a blur in my mind. While camping at the put-in, Allie’s dad, Richard, graciously gave his tent to one of the guides who left his tent at the warehouse. When it began raining, Richard crawled under the flatbed trailer to sleep. “How magnanimous,” we all thought, until the next morning when the guide emerged soaking wet from the borrowed tent. Richard was bone-dry. “I guess I didn’t ever seal the seams on that tent,” he laughed. “It always has leaked.”
It was common practice on those training trips to motor off the last six miles of flat water after running the rapids. While Richard mounted the 15-horsepower outboard to one of the frames, he gave his guides a rather lengthy lecture about taking care of the propellers and paying attention. He pulled the start-cord hard.
Just as the engine fired up, a gust of wind blew the motor-end of the raft against the Proterozoic cliffs that hem the river. In a panic, Richard tilted the engine up. We all watched as the prop rotated hard and fast against the glistening black cliffs, producing a clamor of noise, “Rat! Dat! Dat! Dat! Dat!” and simultaneously threw cascades of sparks everywhere — so much for taking care of the propellers.
My first river trip ever was through Westwater Canyon. I was 15. My dad was the scoutmaster and arranged for a fellow University of Utah professor, George Williams, to take our small troop down the river. The only persisting memory from that outing is paddling against horrific winds for the last six miles of flat water. That was 25 years ago.
Our second day is the autumnal equinox. Creed doesn’t look any older than he did yesterday. More black clouds move steadily over the canyon rim, appropriately ushering in fall. We pull on waterproof layers knowing we will get wet today, either from rain or rapids, or both. A few bends below camp, two-billion-year-old bedrock pins the river snugly between vertical canyon walls. Devastating floods upstream turned the normally murky Colorado River into a high-viscosity stream of sludge, flowing at 4,700 cubic feet per second (CFS) — slightly higher than normal for September.
Framed between the black cliffs of Marble Canyon, the rapids appear menacing and they fall in quick succession: Staircase Rapid, Funnel Falls and Surprise Rapid. High cliffs and a steep drop dramatize the approach to Skull Rapid. I recognize it easily. Below Skull the river makes a hard left turn, but much of the water is pushed to the right into the Room of Doom — a gigantic cubical hewn from the canyon wall, where the current swirls in a slow-motion whirlpool, creating a boatman’s trap that is littered with driftwood, discarded tires, occasional bloated dead cows, and anything else that floats. At higher flows, boats sucked into the Room of Doom have a terrible time escaping the powerful currents.
True to Brian’s word, Skull is no problem for any of our rafts or kayaks. We keep to the left and out of danger. The current marshals us through Bowling Alley and then towards Sock-it-to-me Rapid. I row to shore and take photographs of the boats running through. Some offer more excitement than others, but all the kayaks and rafts ride the churning waves without incident. I take a look at the rapid before climbing back on my raft. The left side looks like such a clean line. Somehow forgetting all the Murdock stories of flipped and dump-trucked rafts that hit the Magnetic Wall at the bottom, I decide to run it left.
I pull on the oars, crossing the smooth tongue of water, executing a flawless left-side run. I casually drift out the tail-waves and suddenly notice we are hurtling towards the Magnetic Wall. All the stories of slaughtered rafts, the descriptions of how the wall just “pulls” boats in, come back to me as my yellow raft slams into the wall. The boat lurches, all three of us on board lean to the high side, and we are pushed harmlessly on our way. The river is kind today.
We row the last six miles of calm water, passing the infamous site of Richard’s “propeller incident” and are lambasted by a massive storm as we reach the take-out. Giant, fat drops of rain turn to a downpour while we load our rafts and say our goodbyes. Wet hugs for all. Driving home on I-70, all the normally dry washes are transformed into raging rivers. While we scatter back to our homes the flow of the Colorado River doubles in volume to nearly 10,000 CFS.
We journey through these canyons to celebrate and remember what is important in life. We nourish and create friendships. We laugh until tears roll down our cheeks. We forget we have jobs and mortgages. The world is beautiful and simple, without partisan politics, shooting sprees, or wars. The canyon walls cradle us in safety, comfort. Another interstate milepost zips past in the headlights. I think of the lone heron hunting for fish in the shallows; the bright near-full moon that woke all of us with ghostly light as it rose over the canyon rim. The Magnetic Wall is already pulling each of us back — and it will win. We will return.
Eric Newell teaches 6th grade at Mount Logan Middle School and is the owner of Black Canyon Guides, LLC, a river guidebook and paddle sport rental business in Smithfield. He can be reached for comments at Eric@BlackCanyonGudies.com.