Desolation. And Abundance: the Unexpected Comfort of Canyon Rapids, Origin & Family—By Brandon Hill (ZX#49)

Bat and I cracked a beer the minute the road ended. A celebration that modern life had just disappeared about 40 miles back, and there were no authorities left. The only authority for the next week was the river and the whims and throws of its will. The sky was clear and sunny and majestic. Only our mentalities are greater. The put-in for Desolation Canyon was still miles ahead, but with a cold beer in hand and a dusty, rutted road ahead, the world was our oyster.

This was my second go-round on “Deso.” The memories of the first are still fresh in my mind, like the last bit of snow hanging from a ledge. Stunning scenery, running rapids, songs by fire in the evening, star gazing, and friendly conversation had me feeling like a true Lost Boy this time last year. I didn’t change once. I barely brushed my teeth. My beard grew unruly. With the restraint of a caveman, I held off beers until 11am… central time. And if it weren’t for being Doc’s guest and the dog back at home, I may not have ever returned to modern life and simply floated down the Green until I arrived at Glen Canyon’s gates. And even then, I might have pulled a Monkey Wrench and blown the whole goddamn thing up so I could continue downstream. I was hooked and eager to return.

***
The river, when functioning accordingly, is a great democracy. “River Democracy.” where all are equal. All are welcome. All are held accountable to one another for sustenance. If you can’t contribute, or perhaps more specifically, will not contribute, you will not be invited back. But if you can, as I have learned, you will be welcomed into one of the greatest gifts known to humankind; the River Family.

Family has never been easy for me. I have a hard time telling my mother “I love you” (even though I clearly do), and I tend to stay immersed in the day-to-day happenings of my own life that I forget to call and check in regularly. I have never been a great sibling to my younger brothers and sister. While I love them to death, our upbringing was, at times, chaotic and unstructured.

But on the river, family is a necessity. One of the greatest joys of the river is accountability to one another. To rely on one another. To help one another. To know that we are all in this together, for better or worse. Aside from running a class III or IV, this is one of the most enjoyable yet fundamental elements of river running with a group. Adhesion and effort. But on this trip, “family” had a new dynamic because, after almost a lifetime of existence, I had just met my biological father weeks before. And though he wasn’t with me physically on this river journey, his presence was very much felt.

***
I had known about my biological father since I was about 11, but up until now, had never conjured up ideas of us ever meeting. My mother and he split, somewhat amicably, before I was even born. It hurt both of them, but what seemed best for the child, ultimately settled the debate.

The morning that we first “met” had started off uneventful. Spring was near. Spots of green and white and purple and red emerged from a long slumber. Covid had gripped the nation for almost a year. We had all slumbered long, still unsure about what was ahead. Jason Isbell’s “River” played in the background as I sent texts back and forth with my best friend. I had once read that Isbell wrote the song not as a literal translation of the lyrics, but as an examination of what it meant to be a man with purpose. I realized I had none, other than my wife and rivers.

“The river is my savior
The only one I’ll ever need
Wash my head when I’ve been sinnin’
Wash my knuckles when they bleed”

My friend told me about what his little girls were up to, the difficulties of being a parent, and most importantly, what it meant to be a father. Since my wife and I do not have children, these things are foreign to me. I sat with the moment, as the music played on.

“But now I’m tired, and a little bit confused
Regarding what I meant to do, and what I did”

And that’s when I sent the Facebook message to my father. We’d never spoken up to that minute. He knew nothing about my life. I knew nothing of his. He could have shrugged me off. He could have ignored it. I soon received the reply, “Brandon, I am so happy you reached out to me. I have thought of you for many years. I would love to chat.” It would be a catalyst for my journey moving forward.

***
By river mile 1, this Lost Boy had returned back to Neverland. There is something about holding a pair of oars, looking up at the scenery, and seeing an entire outfit of folks with free spirits. The disentanglement from a reality we have just left, coupled with a very real reality: there are rapids ahead, and you best be ready for them.

By Day 3, we were in a grove. The Captain. Doc. Holl. Bat. Everyone rowing hard and rowing well. Even camp setup was a breeze. We settled into our chairs, watched the sun slowly fade behind the massive canyon walls, and dug our feet into the sand. If it weren’t for the dynamic yellow and red walls of Desolation Canyon, the colors of the landscape would be somewhat ambiguous. Brown water that gives way to brown sandy beaches and camouflaged thickets. But despite its name, on this trip, we are filled with abundance.

I sit and stare off, looking for big horns along the cliffs, and spend time thinking about my newly-met father. How he loves the outdoors. How he himself was a river rat. How my whole life, I was passionate about many of the very things he was probably doing simultaneously. Was this a tragedy? That we missed all those years of not being outside together? Or was it something beautiful? That I existed as an extension of his passions, completely blind to it all these years? Something I surely will have to confront at some point, I think to myself.

The evening continues on. Doc prepares a proper river meal – Ahi de Gallina. Just as you’d expect. As cups are filled, tales come pouring out. One by one as the sound of a strumming guitar hummed behind us. My wife is telling one of her father’s famously hilarious jokes to a captive audience. Laughter surrounds us, and I can see she is fully immersed and happy in this existence. We are happy in this existence. We should probably get some sleep soon – “Big water tomorrow.”

***
My first Deso trip was filled with river running basics. Identification of the tongue (the fastest, deepest route the river takes between obstacles to the left and right) is typically the mark to look for. When the river is willing to show you, it literally looks like a tongue extending straight from your vantage point down river. From there, you set your line (the direction or angle you will take through the rapid) and hope to Christ there isn’t a rock hidden in there that will knock you over.

On the river, some rapids come fast, with little time to prepare; other times, it seems like you are staring at them for miles before you hit them. The memorable moments of life are like this, too. Sometimes we don’t know what’s coming, and other times we are afforded foresight in advance. But it never changes the outcomes. You row either way.

My reflections returned to my newfound relationship with my father. A kind and decent man by every extent of the word, who was likely enjoying sunshine and camping somewhere back in Idaho. At our first meeting, just before I turned 40 and just before my first Deso trip, we drank whiskey and told stories of our lives, with his lovely wife and mine, over a brilliant fire. Stars hung anxiously, and the moon stayed low to hear the tales.

And as the raft crept nearer to the rapid, just around the bend, I again pondered our shared existence. Our mutual love for the Unitas. That he himself rafted this river many times as a younger man. But what do we make of all this lost time? What I would give to have been with him on some of those river trips when he was a young man, while I was still finding my footing in life. Casual regrets, or scars that live deep in the skin but are not easy to see? But in the exact moment, I wished he was here to guide my line, point out the rocks and pour-overs, and greet me with applause after running a successful run.

The corner turned, and the rapid divulged its true self. The glorious tongue and line exposed for all to see. For there it was, plain as day to the naked eye. The confluence of the father and the son, split right down the guts of the thing. I sped to it, lifted as the wave punched me, and absorbed the absolute beauty of it.

Brandon Hill is a Utah native and a small business owner who lives in Salt Lake City. In his downtime, he is an avid fly-fisherman, outdoor enthusiast, skier, poor golfer, and sometimes writer. He is married to his wife Rhea, and they have one dog, Truman. 

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NOTE: The two stories below, about the terrible events of July 4, 1961, have been read by almost 20,000 Zephyr readers. I am hoping that new information from the U.S. National Archives may be forthcoming in the next few weeks. Hopefully they will shed even more light on this enduring tragic mystery….

Please take the time to read them — they are very long and detailed narratives, so choose a time when you can devote your full attention to them…

Thanks, Jim