Written by Ian Curphey with contribution from Bill Taylor
“Believe me, my young friends,
There is nothing – absolutely nothing –
That is half so much worth doing
As simply messing about in boats.”
(Ratty, “Wind in the Willows)
Of all my stravaigin’ experiences over the last fifty odd years, by far the most important in mine own eyes were the trips I made to the Antarctic during the years between 1966 and1971. Going “South” with BAS and NZARP was the epitome of privilege – a view shared by the majority of we lucky few. Those amongst us who were appointed to the lowliest position of GA (General Assistant) or “Gash ‘Ands” as we called ourselves, inherited the earth, as it were, in that we, the most fortunate of men, were allocated nine of the best companions a man could wish for to assist us. By the grace of “Bunnie” Fuchs, we were “doggie men.”
The bond that this joyous experience created amongst us has stood the test of time, and for more than half a lifetime, that bond has remained – a shared experience so unique methinks, can never be disavowed. Each year, this rapidly crumbling band meet up for the Marguerite Bay Reunion, where the tales of daring do grow like fisherman’s tales and it is hard to move for the canine equivalent of bullshit and cries of, “Up dogs Huit”!
Although my ”ramblings of a rolling stone” days are well astern now, four old Fids, motivated by nostalgia, ended up making a last ditch attempt to dent their approaching decrepitude, by embarking on a last “assisted” sledge trip substitute. All four of this delusioned band had, and have, several things in common. They are now all well into their seventies, they all drove dog teams in Grahamland in 1969, they all shared, and still have, a great love of mountains and the wilder corners of the world and they all persist in refusing to accept the ravages of time. It was my good fortune to have made sledge journeys with all of them.
In addition to this, for over fifty years, Ian Sykes and I have met up continuously in various contexts, but always underpinned by a shared, but always unequal, partnership on the hill. I say unequal, as Sykes, a “real” climber by inclination, skill and determination, invariably had the pointed end of the rope, whereas I struggled, usually fearfully, to bring up the blunt end.
Our first climb together, unnamed route on Mount Tumbledown, Falkland Islands, 1967 and Our last climb together, the Slabs on Cwm Sylin 2016
At the Marguerite Reunion in 2017, well-oiled and possibly placing too much emphasis on what we were in the past, it was decided that the four of us would repeat the Colorado River – Grand Canyon Rafting trip that Sykes and I had made previously. The alcohol induced us to eschew the fact that Bill’s recently acquired mobility problems debarred him from participating in such a venture.
With much milling about sorting out the logistics of our venture, we eventually made firm arrangements for a group of ten to join a motorised rafting trip with the Flagstaff, Arizona company, Azraft, which Sykes and I had used almost a decade previously. In the middle of August, 2018, our mostly rickety group assembled at the “Little America” hotel in Flagstaff, in readiness for messing about on the river. On the 20th we set off for Lee’s ferry, the traditional starting point for the 226 mile trip, through the major Grand Canyon rapids, to Diamond creek, where our excursion would finish.
The Four Fids posed for a photo on the Navajo Bridges which takes Route 89A across the Colorado, some 5 miles north of our starting point.
When we finally debouched at Lee’s Ferry, things were pretty busy, as all our kit was packed into the large inflatable rafts and we were introduced to our three guides, Laura, Jacob and John and the young and incredibly handy “Cabin Boy”, Isaac.
There were two dozen of us on the trip and we eventually sorted ourselves out into the “British Boat”, in which most of our party stowed our dunnage, and the “American Boat” which comprised in the main, a large group of old friends from Scottsdale, near Phoenix. We were an eclectic but extremely compatible group from the outset, which proved to be a significant contributing factor to our mutual enjoyment of the week on the river.
We had an easy introduction to the mighty Colorado as we set off on still waters, buried deep below the awe-inspiring walls of shimmering rock that surrounded us on every hand.
We didn’t cover many miles that first day and, although we passed through half a dozen rapids, our large craft rode them easily with nowt but the odd cascade of water which was welcome in the 100 degree heat. That night, we camped just before the North Canyon Rapid, and slept out under a myriad of stars. Although tired after a long and varied day, everything boded well for the future.
The next day saw our merry band bumbling through more rapids and enjoying ever-changing views of the towering cliffs, dramatic and unbelievably spectacular. A sense of privilege prevailed.
At mile 33 we made a landing at Redwall Cavern, a well-known “beauty spot”, where we were instantly made conscious of just how many people paddle down the Colorado on a daily basis. Literally dozens of boats turned up during our brief stay.
Due to the uncertainty of the monsoon weather, we pitched tents for the remainder of our journey. This proved to be an absolute necessity on one night, when it rained continuously, but in the main our evenings were spent in real comfort, and thanks to the combined musical talents of Sykes, Bill, Jefferson (Bill’s lad) and Bob, we enjoyed several sing-song evenings, usually lubricated with McGregor’s, “three-bob-a-gallon” whisky, supplied by the West Coast elements of our six-strong Scottish contingent.
In general terms, the next few days were uneventful, in that the dozens of rapids we passed through did not present any real problems to our large craft, which, in the hands of our experienced and competent guides, seemed to sail through with ease, yet still managed to provide a bit of excitement whenever a large lump of water came aboard, invariably soaking some and inducing laughter in others. We all took a turn in spluttering in option one and guffawing in option two. Within three or four days, we all seemed well-adapted to life on the river.
At several of the camps, the guides organised trips up the side canyons and visits to idyllic water holes. Bill was excluded from these excursions by necessity, and I was only capable of short walks due to an on-going lower back problem. However, even giving these constraints, essentially born of encroaching decrepitude, we managed to make a fist of our visits.
For myself, I struggled to be of much help in setting up camp, and Julie kindly took my place in the daily “luggage lines”, when all who could helped “hand-ball” the bags from boat to camp. In desperation, I even agreed to join Sykes in his Tai Chi exercises, and though sceptical at first, a few sessions convinced me that “gazing at the moon” and “pushing back the waters”, was more effective in keeping me mobile than the physio exercises I’d been doing for over a month.
Notwithstanding the fact that returning to raft the Grand Canyon re-awakened the enormous sense of privilege – first experienced with Sykes and Julie all those years ago – it is doubtful if I would have returned if it had not been for Bill. On our first excursion, we had experienced the Colorado at its best, having been involved in a two-week trip in small boats that gave us the opportunity to undertake extensive explorations of the side canyons and feel the full power of the numerous rapids. However, the main focus of the motorized trip was Bill and ensuring that he fulfilled his ambition of running the Grand Canyon. As a life-long paddler of kayaks and canoes who had made extensive open water and river expeditions at the highest level, he has forgotten more about exploring remote, challenging waters than we other three collectively knew.
As already hinted at, the technical difficulties of shooting the Grand Canyon rapids were made less frightful due to the size and mobility of our motorized rafts, but for Bill, the serious constraints on his mobility made the mere fact of getting down the river a formidable task that only a stoical and determined man could undertake. During our trip, it became obvious to all that the physical, psychological and social challenges that Bill had to confront and deal with on a daily basis, made us all admire and respect the strength and tenacity of our fellow Fid – true grit in John Wayne country. As he never complained and took every difficulty in his stride, only Bill and the river know what it all meant to him, and as the river never tells, only Bill can articulate the difficulties he experienced and what the trip meant to him.
Bill’s tale …
My determination to raft the Colorado with “Curf and Co” had seemed a realistic (if ambitious) proposition when Rod and I were working our way through the Laphroaig bottle in the bar of the Bowness Hydro at the Marguerite Bay Reunion dinner of 2017. But in the cold light of the following Sunday morning, the idea did not sound quite so easy. However, Spike (Sykes) and Curf had made the trip back in 2009, so had persuasive credibility when they asserted that with Rod’s help, if I felt that I could look after myself once on a raft , between them, they would ensure that I would be able to cope with camping on the sandbars.
As much as the trip would fulfil a paddler’s ambition to run the Colorado, my previous thinking about that possibility had always been framed within the context of paddling a kayak; but by 2017 I needed no convincing that such a journey had slipped beyond my paddling capabilities at least 25 years ago. Now, with my mobility limited to what I could do with two crutches and very recently a wheelchair, rafting the Colorado in the company of old and reliable friends held out the prospect of “one more memorable adventure” than I had been bargaining for. It would also help fulfil another personal dream – sharing a special adventure with my 13-yearold son Jefferson; for he had missed out on the many great adventures in the outdoors I had shared with my older son, Will. Therefore I would be looking to take both Jeff and his mum – Sue. Curf’s wife Julie, another veteran of the 2009 adventure, was also “up for it”, so the number of team helpers that would look after me in camp was beginning to seem realistic.
At first, in the weeks immediately following the reunion, our great idea looked as if it would come to nothing. In spite of Spike maintaining contacts with the Azraft rafting company, they had no places left for a trip in 2018. Meanwhile, I had contacted the company to spell out my mobility problems and been assured that they would not fall foul of Azraft’s customer-health requirements. Then, out of the blue, Azraft contacted to me to say that if I could produce a group of at least eight rafters, they would be able to run an extra motorized raft trip for late August 2018.
Spike’s old friend, Stu, and Rod’s business associate, Andrew, swelled the group to nine, so when my long-term friend and professional colleague, Bob, signed up with the specific intention of helping to look after me, we had a group of ten and the problem of getting around on sandbars no longer seemed such an issue.
So much for the plan and my mind-set as we reached the summer of 2018, and by which time Bob had made wooden “ski-stick baskets” that could be clamped onto my crutches to prevent them sinking into soft sand. But now the plan took a very serious hit…
US Border Security in Chicago airport took away my crutches to X-ray them, but failed to get them back to me before we flew on to Phoenix. Limited to such mobility as could be achieved in my wheelchair, our enquiries with the airline failed to find the crutches and I never saw them again for the rest of the holiday. So while I had mentally prepared myself for overcoming the considerable difficulties of moving around camps on sandbars, it was a major blow to face up to those difficulties knowing that this would have to be without the aid of my crutches. Our attempts in Flagstaff to find replacement crutches only managed to come up with one crutch that was too large and one that was too small – worse than useless. By the eve of the expedition, I was feeling despondent, but determined to put on a brave face while my friends assured me that between them they would get me through the crisis and man-handle me as much as necessary to make the trip work .
Grateful as I was for these assurances, inwardly I was feeling anxious as to how I would be able to handle this. Having spent most of my working life looking after other people in wilderness situations, how would I cope with swallowing my pride and resigning myself to being carried everywhere, no better than a baby? To make the trip work, I was going to have to reinvent myself and reassess my sense of self-worth. Personal dignity would have to be cast aside. I was facing eight days of potential humiliation – but only if I allowed it to get to me. My answer was to treat the absurdity of the situation in which I had placed myself as a big joke – the more humiliating the situation, the bigger the laugh – easy to say; not so easy to do.
In the eventuality, I quickly came to the conclusion that my disability added an unforeseen dimension to the trip; not for me, but for everyone else, and that made it easier for me to accept the situation for what it was. My need to be carried about brought out the best in other people, for it was not just the Three Fids and Co that always sprang to my assistance, whenever it was required. Being carried to and from the raft was a challenge to me as well as those doing the carrying. The challenge was even greater when I had to be carried about to be placed on the “groover” portable toilet, then helped to stand in order to pull up my trousers!
At the social evening organized at the end of the trip, I was approached by one of the American doctors from the Scottsdale team. He wanted to tell me that the most memorable aspect of the trip for him had nothing to do with the river or the scenery. It had been seeing the way the Four Fids team always looked after each other. I’m sure that what he really meant to say was the way that they looked after me.
I will be eternally grateful to Curf, Spike and Rod for talking me into a great outdoor experience, on and off the river. I have been left with many, many wonderful memories. I will also be eternally grateful to all our team for the way they looked after me – not just physically, but in helping me cope and overcome the psychological and social issues that they knew I was having to confront and could have so easily overwhelmed my personal experience.
Returning to our rafts and the resumption of our river stravaig, drifting along in easy style, we were all aware that we were inexorably nearing the end of our Colorado sojourn. The Four Fids, and their jolly, indispensable friends, felt both content and considerable pride in their achievement of a successful trip down the “big river”. Collectively, and with the assistance of our intrepid and competent guides, and the ungrudging support of all those in the “American Boat, the potentially challenging project of ensuring Bill got down the Grand Canyon in good style had been achieved with less difficulty than had been anticipated. All our apprehensions had been transmogrified into fun for everyone, by everyone. The Welsh and Scottish “Gang of ten” succumbed to a certain smugness, tempered with a good dollop of amazement that things had gone so well.
It is oft said that one should save the best to the last and our penultimate day on the river proved to be the most exciting, thanks to Lava Falls Rapid, graded 10/10 on the “Richter Scale”! It is guarded by Vulcan’s Anvil, a monolithic black rock, an almost Tolkiensian portent, akin to the entrance to the Mines of Moria. The quiet waters which surrounded it somehow added to the apprehension caused by knowing what lay beyond, for this is a rapid known to flips 37’ motor-rafts.
Mention has been made of how our large and buoyant rafts tended to make light of most of the rapids we traversed, but the well-deserved reputation of Lava Falls demanded caution and, before the rumble and the roar of the falls proper became all-pervading, we pulled in and tied up on river right in order to recce this rugged cascade.
The British Boat was designated “tail-end Charley” and we watched the American Boat edge slowly into the spuming waters of the Grand Canyon equivalent of Scylla and Charybdis. Within seconds, they were lost to us, but like Odysseus of ancient times, they prevailed and were espied shaking themselves in a giant eddy. We could hear them hollering encouragement as we entered the melee and took on the challenge of Lava Falls.
Within seconds our boat was in chaos, with water up to the gunwales, and crashing stoppers pounding us every which way. One cannot accurately describe mayhem as, when one is in it, it is all one can do to stay in the moment …and in the boat. Doubtless, we were only in this situation for a few seconds before we were spewed out into calmer waters and safety, with the contempt that such a powerful force as Lava Falls Rapid has for those who justifiably dare to broach its hallowed bounds.
There is arguably little more to be said of our stravaig in the brown and turbulent waters of the Grand Canyon. Our trip had many facets and to dwell solely on the excitement of over 400 rapids would be to detract from the wondrous scenery that we passed through during our eight days on the river.
On our last day we reached Diamond Peak, which towered some 3,500 feet above the calm waters of our take-out point. The summit of Diamond Peak is at almost the same elevation as our Lee’s Ferry start point, an interesting reminder of just how far down the kindly river had taken us.
And so, with a few hours of bus travel to endure, we returned to Flagstaff, sad to leave our river behind but quite pleased to get back to a proper bed and bathroom.
Back in the great comfort of the “Little America” hotel, our merry band celebrated in traditional style, prior to making good their plans for returning home. Bill and his family tarried a while and hired a car in order to visit the many attractions hereabouts. Sykes and Stu had ambitious plans and embarked on more daring do, setting out for Yosemite, with bulging packs of camping and climbing gear. Rod and Andrew set off home immediately, due to family and work commitments. Julie and I festered in Flagstaff for 3 days, before returning to “Bonny Scotland”.