In the Desert, When it Rains, It Pours

Every Grand Canyon boatman talks about the craziness of a desert monsoon. In late July and August, thunderheads and rain blow through the Canyon, and if you’re lucky enough, it might just rain where you’re camped along the river. I thought they were totally full of it, until a few nights ago.

I just returned from a 21-day trip in the Grand Canyon, working as a fisheries technician to help USGS, more specifically Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Center, with an ongoing study of juvenile humpback chub, and endangered fish species in the Colorado River. This was my fourth trip down the Canyon and as always, I learned lots about its many ecosystems, critters, the makings of a successful river trip, and a thing or two about myself.

A few days into the trip, we were at a campsite at River Mile 62 when a few other techs and I decided to go for a short hike across the river from our camp, upstream to the Little Colorado River (LCR). We hiked along the Beamer Trail to the Confluence and bathed in the warm and milky blue waters of the LCR. It was a wonderful relief from the 110-degree heat and the chilly Colorado River. As we were waiting for one of the boatmen to pick us up, it started to thunder and rain. The sun still shone overhead and reflected off all the little rain droplets, leaving us in awe of a sparkling rain shower that lasted about five minutes. It was magical—but not a crazy downpour like the boatmen all rave about.

Over the next two weeks, it threatened to rain many times. The clouds would build nearly every afternoon, providing us with much-needed shade, slightly cooler temperatures, and a bit of humidity. It even sprinkled a bit one morning before we went out to catch fish. We always waterproofed our camps before going to work, especially if there were already clouds on the horizon. We all hoped and prayed for clouds, for shade, for coolness, and for some sweet, sweet moisture. But it never really rained.

By the second-to-last day of the trip, I was in disbelief that I would ever witness a Grand Canyon monsoon. As usual, there were clouds all morning and it cleared up during the afternoon. We ate a wonderful lasagna dinner—complete with spinach, zucchini, and meat sauce. The night crew went out to start electrofishing. The sunset was brilliant.

About five minutes after the sky’s colors began fading for the night, a strange orange glow was cast on the Canyon walls and in the looming clouds downstream. Then the lightning started. First with flashes, then with bolts, then with loud bangs. I grabbed my camera that I had already stashed away, ran down to the beach, and starting shooting. This was the storm we had all been waiting for.

The bolts disappeared behind the clouds and the canyon walls downstream were veiled by a blue haze. The boatmen all shouted in excitement, “It’s coming! Time to make a run for it!” Those like me, who hadn’t yet witnessed a monsoon, followed the boatmen in a excited panic to a little alcove in the Tapeats sandstone between the kitchen and the groover. Nevermind the dozens of scorpions, bats, snakes, and spiders that probably all called the alcove home. The winds picked up and the wall of water moved upstream towards our camp.

The sky unleashed more water than I had ever witnessed before in a span of about five minutes. It was violent, beautiful, peaceful, and chaotic all at the same time. We cheered and shouted and thanked the heavens and the spirits. We did something right that day, something right enough to deserve water, the elixir of life. The world was surely telling us something.

Just like that, it was gone. The storm continued to move upstream. We called out to our friends who hadn’t made it to shelter under the alcove and were joyous to hear that they survived the crazy storm. The air was cooler and damp, and the sand was patterned with the thuds of raindrops. There was a strange calmness in the Canyon, almost as if every critter, plant, and rock sighed in great relief. I made it back to my cot and set up my tent, only to be comforted and startled by lighting flashes and the sound of sweet rain all night.

A Mobile Science Experiment

The three weeks I just spent in the Grand Canyon were not a vacation by any means. As a volunteer for Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Center (GCMRC), a subunit of USGS, I helped with a larger study of juvenile humpback chub. Mike Yard, a fisheries biologist at GCMRC, runs several of these trips each year, collecting data on the population and distribution of the chub. I was lucky enough to go along for the ride, squeeze and tag lots of fish, and learn all about the problems the species face.

The chub are a native and endangered species in the Canyon, and their survival depends on the success of the little guys. On one of our first nights in the Canyon, Yard made it clear to me that from a strictly biological standpoint, the humpback chub can no longer be considered “native fish” in this stretch of river. Glen Canyon Dam has fundamentally changed the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, from the temperature to the turbidity, to the river channel itself. While it is easy to point fingers at Glen Canyon Dam directly, Yard says that he suspects the lack of organics flowing through the modern Colorado River as a result of the Dam are a significant factor to the decline of the chub. But, he also made it clear to me several times that he, as a scientist, can never be 100% certain as to what’s going on underwater.

These days, the humpback chub are primarily concentrated around the Confluence of the Little Colorado River (LCR) and the Colorado (river mile 61.7), the mouth of Havasu Creek (river mile 157.3), and near Fall Canyon (river mile 212). Yard and other scientists believe the fish like the slightly warmer temperatures and nutrients flowing from the LCR and Havasu, but the population explosion near Fall Canyon is largely inexplicable aside from slightly warmer water temperatures.

For each trip that Yard and GCMRC puts on, he hires 6 boatmen (one for each of the six boats), at least four electro-fisherman, and a few volunteers. They spend two nights trout fishing upstream of Lee’s Ferry, and a night near House Rock Rapid (river mile 17.1). Lee’s Ferry is a gold-medal trout fishery, so part of his study is to monitor the trout populations before studying the native species. Next they travel downstream to the LCR (river mile 62) for six nights of fishing, then it takes a few travel days to get to Fall Canyon (river mile 212), where another six nights are spent fishing, before taking-out at Diamond Creek (river mile 226).

By fishing, I mean hoop-netting and electrofishing. And with the amount of fish that we end up with each night, it honestly should be called “catching”. Upstream of Lee’s Ferry, we were up until 3am both nights catching fish and processing them; for a total of nearly 1500 fish in one night. At Fall Canyon, we caught nearly that in one day just from hoop-netting! I worked a 12-hour shift that day on the processing boat, measuring, weighing, and tagging fish. At the end of the trip, we had caught more than 10,000 individuals— that’s more fish than I’ve ever seen in my life.

Compared to my last science trip in 2017 with Arizona Game and Fish (AZGF), this trip was much, much more intense. AZGF mostly does fish monitoring, or collects data to get a general idea of the overall population trends and distributions of the various native species throughout the Canyon. We worked our way through the entire Canyon, setting 20 or so hoop nets each night and checking on them during the day. Yard at GCMRC, calls himself “greedy” when it comes to data. He works tirelessly day after day in the intense heat of the Canyon (over 115 degrees on some days), to collect as much data as possible. He’s working towards answering specific research-based questions about the chub, like why they’re declining and why they’re doing well in specific places in the Canyon. On Yard’s trip, we only sampled for native fish in two locations: below the LCR and at Fall Canyon instead of throughout it. We spent six nights in each location and set 120 hoop nets in both stretches of river. For me, this was crazy, and I loved it.

One day, below the LCR, while waiting for our next batch of fish to be brought in from the hoop-netters, I asked Yard why we, as in the general population, should care about the survival of a single native species such as the humpback chub. For the record, I definitely care, I was just curious how he answers this question because I get asked it as an environmental studies major all the time. He gave me a few reasons, here they are in quick bullet points:

1. The humpback chub, as with any species, are an integral piece to the giant puzzle we call Planet Earth. If we want to further understand how our Planet works, the humpback chub are just one piece of the puzzle.

2. Everything in the natural world is interconnected. If the humpback chub die off, another species certainly will, creating a slippery slope of extinction. We’re already seeing this around the world with the effects of climate change.

3. We should (arguably) take responsibility for our actions. We dammed the Colorado River and completely altered its natural ecosystem. Now that we realize the adverse effects of our actions, we should work to find solutions and to protect an innocent species for their intrinsic value so we can preserve the natural world for a sustainable future.

Whether or not the humpback chub will make it as a new nonnative fish in a changed Colorado River, we can’t be sure. But with the help of Yard and other scientists, we’ll certainly gain a better understanding of their habits, which hopefully increase their survival.

Possessed by the Canyon

I sit in my tiny, dirty hotel room in Flagstaff, Arizona, and try to produce the words to summarize my feelings towards the last three weeks of my life. I’m stuck, with a classic case of writer’s block. Writing about this collision of deep emotions, dramatic landscapes, and endangered organisms is no easy task.

I look to my journal that I attended to each night on our journey down the mighty Colorado and to Edward Abbey’s Down the River, which also accompanied me, for inspiration. I think back to a night spent about halfway through my 20-something day adventure, where I sat on an outcrop of metamorphosed black rock and watched the stars begin to poke out from the darkening night sky. That night, I wrote in my journal:

It’s twilight and we’re deep in the Granite Gorge. So deep— a glimmer of the Redwall Limestone can barely be seen from only one angle of camp. So deep— the Tapeats Sandstone is hundreds of feet above us, the same ancient layer which we had made our home next to during the last week. So deep— the heat radiates off the canyon walls, even after the Sun has long ceased to cook its surface. A sliver of moon pokes out between clouds, the stars are as bright as ever. I sit on a slab of Vishnu Schist, my favorite layer in the Canyon, which overlooks the river and no doubt has undergone millions, if not billions, of years of intense heat and pressure, only to be revealed and sculpted by the Mighty Colorado River. What a courageous formation. I’m mesmerized under the light encased within the canyon walls. Endorphins, pure happiness, and wonder course through my veins. I’m back, and I am more grateful than ever before to be here. The outside world no longer matters, I belong here, in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. This place is a drug. Addicting, exciting— it lures you in and is a bitch to leave behind. The roar of the whitewater’s deepest holes, the boatmen’s endless chatter, the fascinating history… I can’t get enough. I’m so incredibly lucky.

There were several nights on my third trip through the Grand Canyon where these intense waves of happiness hit me. It is moments like these, that endlessly inspire me, bring tears to my eyes, and remind me to be grateful for my experiences.

Back in February, I reached out to Mike Yard, a fisheries biologist at Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Center, which is a subunit of USGS, about accompanying him as a volunteer on a three-week river trip. Yard does several of these trips each year to study the humpback chub populations, an endangered native fish to the Colorado River. It seems like it was just yesterday when we agreed that I would be a part of his July trip during a phone call. Once we hung up, I nearly cried of excitement as I sat in a King Soopers parking lot and realized that I found a way back to the Canyon. Now those three weeks have passed, and I’m struggling to wrap my head around the mirage of events that occurred on our 21-day, 20-person, 10,000-plus-fish-captured adventure.

The three weeks were a time warp. As a whole, they flew by. I can’t believe they’re already over. But during the trip on a daily basis, time moved ever-so-slowly. Completely cut off from the outside world (except for the boatmen’s occasional late-night sat-phone conversation), the days dragged on. It seemed like decades went by. In a good way though, especially once shade hit our camp in the late afternoon and we became temporarily relieved from the flaming orb of death. I feel like I’ve missed so much from the outside world. I know that I really missed nothing.

Aside from all my new knowledge of the humpback chub and other fish in the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, as well as a few tips and tricks from the boatmen, I’ve learned (more like been reminded of), one key thing. The Grand Canyon is where I’m meant to be. There’s a reason it keeps calling back to me, there’s a reason I can’t stop thinking about it, there’s a reason I daydream about it during lectures and exams. One of the boatmen said about two weeks into our trip, “you have a deep, dark future down here,” meaning I’ve clearly caught the river bug and I’m doomed to an eternity in the Big Ditch. This doesn’t seem so terrible. As long as a “deep, dark future” means nights under the stars, hard work in 115-degree heat, epic sunsets, cool mornings, and dozens of runs through Lava Falls.

I’m not as sad to leave the Canyon as I have been in the past. One way or another, I know I’ll find my way back. I’m simply possessed by the drug that is the Grand Canyon. I realized this under the stars in the Granite Gorge as I wrote in my journal, “This place is a drug. Addicting, exciting…” and Edward Abbey so perfectly explains this in his essay, “In the Canyon” from Down the River. He writes:

The Canyon belongs to itself, to the world, to God, for whatever those grand abstractions are worth. And so far as the term “possession” has meaning, it would be more accurate to say that the Canyon possesses us. Those who love it are possessed by it. We belong to the Canyon, having known it a little and loved it too much, as indeed all those who love the land, who love the earth, belong to it and consign themselves to it and finally return to it.

Waterfalls

I woke up to a bright morning sun and the roar of whitewater in the depths of billions of years of rock, which, if you look closely enough, tells an incredible story about how the Grand Canyon came to look like what it does today. I was a bit more groggy than usual— I was up late the night before, watching the stars dance across the sky to Dark Side of the Moon. But today was going to be an epic day.

We started off slow by making chocolate chip pancakes on the banks of the Colorado, then packed up our things and headed down river, where we found the narrowest point in the canyon. I recognized it as soon as one of my friends pointed out the organ-shaped rock up on river right. There were even little white rocks strategically placed by some clever river-runner years before, in order to look like keys.

As I was observing this section of the river, I noticed an almost perfectly vertical 20-foot cliff. It was undoubtedly time for some cliff jumping. My friends and I did a few casual “depth-tests” of the river and decided it was safe enough. So we sent it. And it was awesome.

Several hours later, we were cool and refreshed and a little tired after using up most of our adrenaline as we plunged into the chilly Colorado. But we continued up to the Tonto Plateau until we rounded a corner and camp to Deer Creek. We wound down through the narrows and dropped our packs. I had been here before, over two years ago on a hot and sunny summer day with my family.

I rinsed off in some of the waterfalls, just as our river guides showed me before, and eventually we all began walking down to the main event, the highlight, of our trip.

Back out by the river, we descended through the Tapeats and found ourselves standing under a massive 180-foot waterfall, streaming out from the narrows up above where we had just been. Deer Creek Falls. Every river trip stops here. It is one of the main attractions to commercial and private groups, while a few backpackers show up to this spot every couple days. But we had it all to ourselves. Aside from the beautiful sound of rushing water, it was completely silent.

So, what is there to do in a moment like this?

The answer to us was obvious. Strip down to your bare skin and bones of course, and wade into the turquoise blue waters and stand before that behemoth of a waterfall and take it all in. And that’s what we did. It was liberating. The wind and mist were freezing, our legs were warmer beneath the surface in the cold waters of Deer Creek.

We were so free, so joyful and so incredibly pure. I hadn’t felt that way since my last river trip.

A day later, on our last night in the canyon and up above the Redwall, I found a spot to myself to watch the sun set over the western edges of the canyon. I began to think about the what the Grand Canyon does exactly, that keeps calling me back.

Many know that nature has a way of helping you forget all your problems in life. A multi-day backpacking trip in the Grand Tetons, or the Maroon Bells-Snowmass wilderness, or the Maze in Canyonlands will leave you rejuvenated. The Grand Canyon does the same thing, except it happens instantly. Every minor and subtle inconvenience and annoyance that you put up with in your daily life, even the ones that arrive on a backpacking trip, disappear. Climb down below the canyon’s rim— and they’re gone.

You’re left with the purest form of yourself, where an incredible landscape leads you to the truth one day at a time.

I wasn’t sad to say goodbye to the Colorado River and the Grand Canyon this time. I left feeling so alive and so self-aware and so thankful for the perspective the canyon has given me in the last four days. I know I’ll soon be back for more.

Soul Searching

If you’re desperately in need of some soul-searching, I would recommend the Grand Canyon.

My fourth time in this magnificent landscape brought back the purest form of myself. Speaking from experience, you turn into a different person once you walk up to the edge of that big ditch. You always discover things in the deepest corners of who you are. You leave a stronger and more aware version of your previous self. It’s just what the Grand Canyon does to you.

Four friends and I gathered up only our necessary belongings and made the 12-hour pilgrimage from Boulder, Colorado to the North Rim. We walked down to Bright Angel Point just before the suns rays began to paint its incredible shadows along the canyon walls. After an emotional hour at the rim, we drove another forty miles west down a dusty dirt road to park our cars. The road ended there.

Two days later we had descended through the brutal Redwall Limestone and arrived at Thunder River Falls. We stood right at its foot, in the mist and cool breeze and were in awe of the amount of water rushing from a spring buried in the Muav Limestone several hundred feet above us. After a few quick rinses, we followed Thunder down to its confluence with Tapeats Creek, and continued all the way to the mighty Colorado River, deep in the bottom of the grandest canyon on Earth.

I instantly dropped my pack in the sandy camp, said nothing to my friends, switched into my Chacos and headed for the river. I found a big boulder near the shore and climbed on top. A decent-sized rapid lay in front of me, Tapeats Creek Rapid, and it all began flooding back.

The sound of the river, its smell, the glassy surface of the tongue of a rapid, its lines, its features, the adrenaline, the joy, the boatmen who inspire with words like “listen to the river, listen for its voice, listen to what the river is trying to say to you”.

There were so many thoughts and memories and feelings running through my head at the sight of the Colorado, and at the same time—there was nothing. No thoughts, just the river. I walked down river a ways until I found a large beach covered in footprints, undoubtedly a campsite for river runners. I sat down in the sand and began humming “Stairway to Heaven”. I was so present.

The Colorado River has served as my source of inspiration for a few years now, as it all started on my first river trip through the Grand Canyon with my family in the summer of 2016. A year later on the river, I found my motto, “don’t fight the river”, and laying on that beach near Tapeats Creek by myself I found new meaning in that little phrase.

The river is more than just an allegory for life. The river is who I want to be. Always moving, always flowing, independent, strong and consistent. People dam rivers, restrain it and control it. But in the end, the river is bigger than anything humanity can fathom. Its spirit can never be contained.

I stood up, smiled at the reflection of the canyon walls on the river, and walked back to my friends at camp to start dinner. There will be more time for soul-searching tomorrow.

It Never Gets Old

It can be so easy to feel alone. 

When you're stuck in the grind, working day after day, and following the same routine, it's easy to feel like it's you versus the world. Even if you would term yourself to be "happy", the grind and the routines can make you feel stuck. You lose sight of yourself. Your boredom intensifies. Your happiness dwindles. It's easy to feel like you're the only one who thinks and the only one who cares.

Honestly, this is how I've felt for the last few months. Not necessarily lost, or unhappy, just alone. 

Last week, myself and ten others pulled up to Desert View in the Grand Canyon after five days of backpacking. Five of them had never seen the big ditch before, so they paired up with each other, covered their eyes, and walked blindly to the edge. I led the way, unpaired, and emotions started to flood my thoughts. I was back, less than a year later, to my center of the universe. 

Once at the viewpoint, I positioned everyone on the railing, and told them to open their eyes. I'll never forget those five faces. They were in shock, stunned, mesmerized by the canyon. Just like I always am. I told them that it never gets old.

We walked down below the viewpoint a little ways to the edge of a cliff, which we probably shouldn't have done, but none of us were mentally capable of handling the National Park crowds after being in the Utah backcountry for several days. Time slowed down, the sun drifted below the rim while we all watched and shivered in the coming cold.

I set up my tripod and photographed the light on the canyon walls as the colors shifted from gold to pink. But once the pink began to fade and the blue hour began to rise, I just watched. I hadn't been that happy in a long time.

That was the real me. Standing there on the edge of the grandest place on Earth, camera in hand, surrounded by those who also think, and who also care. We were all so present in that moment, there were no distractions and no extraneous thoughts. The light, the canyon, the wind, the silence. That's all that really mattered.

So whenever you start to feel alone, find those who love to truly live, drive away to somewhere grand, and watch what the world really has to offer.

Canyon Voices

A few months ago, I came home from college and discovered a new book on the kitchen counter. It was Ansel Adams' collection of National Park photos. I was immediately sucked in. I sat in the kitchen and glazed over each of his photographs, admiring the shadows and simplicity of his work with film.

Of course, I especially loved his photos of Grand Canyon. 

After my twelve-day river trip through the grandest place on Earth, my mom and I spent a day hiking on the South Rim, and made it to Hopi Point for sunset. That was my goodbye to the Canyon. I went crazy with photos. My mom and I were the first ones there and the last ones to leave after the sun went down. I was doing my best Ansel Adams impression.

But during the last few moments of daylight, I was just trying to take it all in. The shadows. The desert sky. The river flowing, thousands of feet below. The colors of the steep canyon walls. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. Tears came to my eyes as I watched the sun's last rays disappear behind the canyon rim. 

I thought of a moment, probably about a week before, when we were deep in the Earth. Pilar and Kristy had fallen asleep again during a long day of driving. I was sitting in the swamper's seat in the motor well with Chango, sharing our thoughts about life when we rounded a corner and he cut the motor. We just floated down the mighty Colorado and observed the evening unfold before us. The birds were madly chirping in the bushes, the sun cast shadows around every pinnacle, the water sparkled under the sinking sun.

He whispered, "Listen to the birds, the wind. Listen to what the river is saying to you."

It was so peaceful, so inviting, so inspiring. I fell in love with the Canyon all over again when I closed my eyes and listened for its voice. 

I stood on the rim a week later, in a whole different world, and listened to the Canyon for the last time. It was a little different, with a crowd of people behind me all trying to capture the same moment. 

I wasn't nearly as sad to leave as I was almost a year before. Instead I felt more self-aware than I had ever been before. This was where I was meant to be and what I was meant to do. The Grand Canyon. I'll be back; this isn't goodbye for long. 

The Edge of the Earth

I'll admit that I've always been a passionate person. I become obsessed with things very easily—music, movies, places, hobbies. As soon as I fall into something, it takes a lot for me to come out. 

When I first rafted the Grand Canyon, it sparked something in me. Our guides could tell that I caught the river bug. I saw the entirety of the big ditch's bottom, and was amazed by every corner, pocket, side canyon, tributary, eddy, cliff, and rapid. But I had never seen the top of the Grandest place on Earth. Which isn't an unusual phenomenon for me. It took two visits of San Francisco for me to see the Golden Gate Bridge, three visits to Los Angeles to see the Hollywood sign. I guess I'm not the most observant person... but I knew that I would get super emotional when I saw the enormity of the Canyon for the first time.

My mom and I decided to make a road trip out of my second time through the Canyon. We had camped in Bears Ears one night and explored a few Native American ruins, then drove to the North Rim and found a campsite on a Forest Service Road. We drove another 30 minutes from our campsite to the North Rim.

I love National Parks because you always seem to be driving and driving, wondering how anything incredible could be so far away, and you become impatient, wondering where "it" is, driving aimlessly through a desert or forest. Where the hell is it? And then BOOM, it's right in front of you. It's like you didn't know what you were getting yourself into.

We entered the gates at the North Rim and drove a few more miles through forest to the parking area at the headquarters. We could tell it was near the edge because through the trees was open air. We walked through a maze of cabins. 

I remember there were people all around us, like cattle all trying to get to the same destination—the edge of a cliff. But once I stepped through the last of the trees, the world seemed to open up in front of me. It was incredible. Magical. Like nothing I'd ever seen before. Unimaginable. Tears came to my eyes. I'm not kidding. I stood there, in a maze of people, with nothing before me but openness and a fire of curiosity as to how something so amazing has been here. All this time, and I hadn't seen it until then. The people were gone. It was just me. On the edge of the Earth. 

About a week later, I was in it, the great big ditch. And I had packed up my cot and dry bag and was making my way to the kitchen for breakfast before a big day of fishing. Chango approached me and said, "Okay K-hal, tell me something that's going to make my day."

"That's a lot of pressure!"

"It doesn't have to be long, it can be anything!"

"Uh okay.... well when I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time a few days ago, I cried. I was in shock."

Chango smiled. "You just made my day."

Science Never Stops

There are three types of trips that run through the Grand Canyon: commercial, private, and science. Commercial trips are those that tourists pay thousands of dollars for, and was what I did last year with Arizona Raft Adventures. Private trips require a permit from the National Park Service's lottery system, anyone can go. Science trips are typically funded by NPS, the Department of the Interior, or Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Center (GCMRS). The Arizona Game and Fish Department (AGFD) does three trips per year to study the fish populations—all funded by Glen Canyon Adaptive Management Program. 

This was a science trip. There were four boatmen, three scientists, two other volunteers and myself.

AGFD was collecting data to examine the trends of the native and nonnative fish populations in the Grand Canyon section on the Colorado River. On the second half of the trip, we mostly caught flannelmouth suckers and humpback chub, with a few speckled dace and bluehead suckers, which are all native fish species in the Canyon. There are tons of brown and rainbow trout in the upper third of the canyon, which are nonnative fish. 

The first two photos above are of a young humpback chub, named for its hump behind its nose. The chub are an endangered species due to habitat destruction from the dams and nonnative predators. They tend to congregate around the turquoise blue waters of the Little Colorado River and Havasu Creek because of the warmer water from these tributaries, but are also spread out in the lower third of the Canyon (3rd photo). Data collection from AGFD's trips have shown that the chub populations in this section of the canyon has rapidly increased due to range expansion that occurred within the last 5 or 10 years; they have been around the Little Colorado and Havasu for as long as scientists have been studying them. 

We all worked, there wasn't much time for relaxing. A typical day would look like the following:

We would wake up after sunrise, normally around 7:30 and have some coffee. The head cook, Perkins, and a few other helpers would start breakfast while everyone else would pack up their cots and dry bags. We'd eat, share a few laughs and load up the boats while jamming to a morning run through Perkin's only playlist—which consisted mostly of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Then a boatman, scientist and volunteer would head out on each of the two sport boats to retrieve the hoop nets that we set out the night before. The retrieval and data processing would take between 1.5-3 hours, depending on how many fish we caught. After, we'd all meet at camp and start heading downstream.

We would drive the boats for 30 minutes or 4 hours, which depended on where our fishing sites were, and thus how many miles we had to cover each day. We'd either eat lunch on the boats, pack a lunch, or stop somewhere to stretch our legs and cool off in the shade. Then we'd find a camp for the night, unpack the boats and set up the kitchen.

A boatman, scientist and volunteer would head out on the sport boats to set the hoop nets and reflective batons to mark electrofishing sites (last photo) and then we'd all return to camp for dinner and some free time. The scientists would go out to electrofish once it got dark, and the rest of us would hang out in the motor wells of the rafts and chat with the boatmen.

Whenever we'd pass the other sport boat when pulling hoop nets in the morning, and if we had caught any chub, we would shout "CHUBBBB" across the river to the other boat and fishermen. Scientists tend to get pretty stoked about endangered fish.

Three Rules for Life

On Day 2 of our 12-day rafting trip from Pipe Creek at river mile 89 to Pearce Ferry at river mile 280, we woke up early to get a head start on a long day. We had to pull the hoop nets that were set out the night before, drive about 30 miles on the river, and set the hoop nets early enough so that the scientists had time to rest before a long night on the river electrofishing. 

We had a day of big water on the river, consisting of Hermit and the Gems (Crystal, Tuna Creek, Agate, Sapphire, Turquoise, Ruby and Serpentine). So the morning was wet and crazy, and we then reached a long stretch of flat water. Two of the scientists on our trip, Pilar and Kristy, decided it was nap time, since there would be nothing but smooth sailing for the rest of the day. 

There was no way I'd fall asleep. I was in the middle of the Grand Canyon, only for the second time. I formulated countless questions as I looked around at the rock layers, plants, river currents and eventually grew tired of leaving my questions unanswered, since the scientists were both asleep. I stood up, moved to the back of the boat and sat down in the motor well next to Chango, one of the four boatmen on the trip. 

This was the first real conversation I had with Chango, and he read me like a book.

"Have a lot of questions and no one to answer them?" 

"You can't nap out here now, there's too much to see!"

Chango had a long full beard. Shoulder-length, curly hair, painted toenails, and a beer belly. He had been running Grand Canyon trips for about ten years, mostly commercial, he was just starting his journey with science trips. The more I learned about him, the more I realized we're much alike—both our faults, and strengths. 

So I spent a lot of our driving time in the motor well with Chango, picking his brain, listening to his philosophical quotes, learning his outlook on life, asking countless questions about the Canyon. And surprisingly, I don't think he ever got sick of my company.

We made camp on river left, at an unknown river mile. I helped cook and clean and took a nap next to a really cool exposure of the tapeats sandstone. The sunset lit up a cliff of redwall limestone that was perfectly framed by the Tapeats, and was even reflected into an eddy next to our camp. I sat down on the beach after I finished with my camera, and thought about what Chango had told me on the boat.

Two points had really stuck with me from our first conversation... First, there is a red, round figure on top of a cliff on one of the last corners before Crystal Rapid. Grand Canyon boatmen call it the Crystal Ball and use it as a signal that the daunting Class IX rapid is around the corner.

Second, Chango has three rules for life that he's learned while spending time in the Canyon:

1. Always do your best.
2. Be impeccable with your work.
3. Never take things too personally.

I can't count how many times I've thought of his rules while I was still in the Canyon, and since the day I stepped out of it.

Why Grand Canyon?

What a privilege it was to raft the Grand Canyon for a second time. 

Almost a year ago, I set out on an adventure that changed my life. My family and I left for an eight-day trip through the Grandest Canyon on Earth, from Lee's Ferry to Diamond Creek with Arizona Raft Adventures (AzRA). Since then, not a day has gone by where I don't think about the mighty Colorado River, the canyon walls and the desert skies. 

After our trip, I was looking for any way to get on another river trip, whether it was as a swamper, an assistant or a volunteer. I reached out to both of our guides from my first trip, the head guide at AzRA and found nothing. I gave up after a few months of digging. One day I was scrolling through Facebook and stumbled upon a link that AzRA shared, Arizona Game and Fish (AGFD) was looking for volunteers to help them electrofish and study the native fish populations for ten days. I applied without hesitation. 

And here I am, on the other side, reflecting on my second time through the Canyon. I can't believe I've done it twice. 5 million people visit the National Park every year, only 22,000 ever get to raft through it—that's less than 1%. Only a handful of permits are given out to private boaters every year, some enter the permit lottery annually, and never are given the opportunity. This will be one of many posts about my twelve-day experience from Phantom Ranch to Pearce Ferry.

The Grand Canyon is something truly special. I'm not the first one to notice it, Native Americans have called it sacred for centuries; John Wesley Powell admired it's beauty in 1869 during his legendary expedition; Teddy Roosevelt said to leave it be, men can only mar it. 

So about a week into our trip, we camped below Diamond Creek (new territory for me), had dinner, and the scientists went out to electrofish while we stayed behind to watch the sunset and relax. I set up my Gorilla tripod, neutral density filter, and wide angle lens, to capture this desert sunset that was forming around the canyon walls. 

I sat on the beach, watched the moon rise, and began to think about what makes the Grand Canyon so special for me.

Rafting the Grand Canyon comes with a plethora of challenges. It's hot. It's dry. It's long. It's easy to get claustrophobic, dehydrated, cranky, hungry, exhausted, etcetera. But all these challenges come with great rewards: desert sunsets, sounds of the river, boatman's stories, the company of new friends, loads of history, and never ending beauty. 

The Grand Canyon makes you feel small and insignificant. It makes you think about who you really are, what is important to you, and who you want to become. Every night, I watched unforgettable sunsets and reflected on my life and what I can do to make it better.