16 survivors :) less the camera clicker

havasu canyon flood - part one

Every action has a reaction:

     I look out the train window at the giant cement piers that holds me and a hundred tons of rumbling motion above the bay and think 'all this started with one step, one person, one action.' In 1869 John Wesly Powell decided to row down an enormous waterway from the headwaters of the Green River down the Colorado to the Gulf of Mexico. He was not a boatman at the time, but he thought it would be a good adventure. Now the Glen canyon dam holds back the Powell Reservoir. How ironic that the enchanting canyons he claimed his favorites now lay still and dark under millions of cubic feet of water bearing his namesake. Is it just my race of people or all of mankind that needs to change, develop, and improve every nook, rock, and cranny of Mother Nature, no matter how beautiful and functional it is to begin with? In fact the more pristine and perfect it is the more we want to change, groom and manage it. I wonder if Powell knew how far reaching his ‘one step’ would be, what reaction his one action would bring.

 

Aug. 16 2008

     It is still dark but I can tell it is predawn by the subtle changes in the night sounds. I lay here and watch the stars fade. I can’t sleep but I don’t want to get up either… even though this day has been promised to be “the best so far!” Havasu canyon. Ayla has been talking about this hike since the day I met her four months ago. “Oh wait ‘til you see it. It is the most amazing canyon in all of Arizona!”

     I see a dark figure moving along the beach, I’m sure it is her.  She probably hasn’t slept a wink in anticipation of today’s adventure. Ayla’s face is weathered with adventure, deep smile lines and bright blue eyes. Her figure pushes the boundaries of slender and her strength is graceful and seemingly endless.

             Dooooooooong

    There is it ... the  beautiful, vibrating clang of her ancient brass bowl. My body jerks with a negative response.  It is confused by the conditioning of the last two weeks. By which that beautiful sound normally mean scrupulous food is ready and the conflict of knowing that this morning it is telling me to just ‘GET UP.' Something I don’t necessarily want to do but am not really opposed to either. I guess it is just the idea that someone is telling me "do it ‘right now’" that pushes my rebellious button. It isn’t quite 5:00am and the work will begin the minute I drag my sore bones off this paco pad, at least I’m not on kitchen duty this morning.

     Sixteen years ago Ayla, returning from her first Grand Canyon rafting tour, wholeheartedly signed her name to the ever growing list of people asking for permission to float the mighty Colorado. Sixteen years of waiting for this day! Today we will hike the pristine Havasu Canyon.

     It’s 7:20am we are packed, strapped and pushing off the banks of Upset Hotel camp. Seven cool, tranquil miles slip by in little over an hour. We arrive at the Havasu eddy around 8:45am. Not surprisingly we are the first party to anchor here ... all a part of the plan that was formulated months ago around the table of our trip leader.

    To everyone’s great relief we all catch the tricky eddy and tie the lead boat to the webbing attached along the canyon wall just outside the tiny mouth of the expansive canyon. I’m not sure exactly how wide the mouth is but our boats are 18 footers and they defiantly can’t fit through sideways.  We tie all the boats securely to each other.

part two

     I gather my hiking gear; my daypack, nalgene bottle, the sandwich I made this morning and my sun shirt & hat.  It is already about 100 degrees. We are all eager to get going knowing that Mooney Falls lay six miles up an unknown trail and we must be back by 4:30 -5:00, approximately seven hours for 12 miles or so. Cedar paddles the IK full of packs and people upstream to a trailhead on creek right. The rest of us dive into the turquoise water and swim upstream easily conquering the gentle current. There is some discussion as to where the ducky is to be left. Matt suggests the cliff we climb towards the trail but that means dragging it a good fifteen feet up to the level ground.  An alcove across river is chosen, which leaves it about four feet above the waterline. 

     As we prepare for the day ahead, Ruby reads us a passage from her guidebook.  It goes something like this:  It is suggested that a boat wrangler be left to tend the boats as the canyon has been know to flush away whole groups of boats due to the flash floods of the monsoon season.

    No one looks directly at each other, our eyes averted, we just keep rifling through our drybags and changing our attire. Finally someone says 'fuck that, I'm not staying'.  We all sigh in relief and look around with a chuckle, 'me neither' we all think silently.  Happily we start the acclaimed adventure together. I start to think about what one would do if they were left behind with the boats and a flash flood was emanate.  Untie them? ...ride one and wrangle the rest into an eddy by yourself?...stay with one and set the others free?... leave all your buddies behind and do the last 60 miles by alone?...with five boats? Oh well, its a beautiful, sunny day... not a cloud in the sky.

part three

 

    The excitement is accumulating and we take off in various groups. It is like the beginning of a bike race and soon we are spread out according to hiking speed and waterfall-sighting intent. The trail is a smorgasbord of fascination, weird rocks, watery tunnels, palm trees, snakes and scratchy cliffs.  It is well marked, running alongside river right, then river left, then river right again and so on and so on. Even before the first crossing I jump in to cool down in the lusciously wet water. It is so warm compared to the icy Colorado, so clear, just perfect for a warm day's hike. There are no bothering bugs.

    Soon we see Beaver falls, incredible! Travorntine teacup clusters create turquoise-green pools with foamy white drops.... but gentle... everything looks and feels so gentle. We jump off the cliffs into the deep pool.  I ask Matt to take my picture while I am waist deep in the middle of the stream, a waterfall as the backdrop. I remember a scene from Blue Lagoon where Brooke Shields looses her virginity, well this scene looks kinda like that one. I can't really describe the true peacefulness and beauty of this little valley tucked away in the depths of the great Grand Canyon desert. We wade through acres of wild grapes not being able to see below out waists. I imagine all the little gnomes and other creatures down there just watching our legs and feet tromp by.

      Around noon we start to meet other hikers on the trail. They are coming down the trail from the Supai Village. A funny mix of people. We ask how far to Moony Falls and they ask how far to Beaver Falls.  I notice some sleeping pads and bags tucked away in tiny cave near the cliff. Someone will camp here tonight even though it is not permitted.

    By 1:00 we arrive at the spectacular Moony falls. WOW. Only photos can help me now. We eat our packed lunch and marvel for awhile.  The sky is still blue with a pretty white cumulous cloud building near the horizon. Its 2:00 and we all decide to head back. Seven of us have made it this far. The wind begins to blow and the temperature drops noticeably. Within 20 minutes the sky darkens and we feel the spatter of raindrops, we hear thunder. 

part four

    We hurry across the Havasu creek, back and forth.  The rain is fierce now. I feel cold, but walking fast helps. We enter the grape filled valley and the buckets of raindrops are joined by aspirin sized hail balls. The river is rising and taking on a brown film color. I look up and see muddy water pouring over the top of the rim walls... everywhere. Where the cliff trail was dry hours ago a mighty shower now pours down on us, we climb through newborn waterfalls. It is slick and slippery. We pass the other hikers headed back to Supai. Not many words are exchanged but a few 'good lucks' and 'be carfuls'.  I feel excitement, crazy energy from the storm, wonderment at the strength and spontaneity of Mother Nature. We stick together.

    About a mile below Beaver Falls the trail makes another crossing. On the opposite bank we see four other people from our party.... I can see their eyes are wide from here. Excitement? The rain has let up. They beckon us to hurry and join them. It isn't so fun to cross anymore. Ruby is almost breathless as she describes her experience of forty minutes ago. 'I was standing right there!' she points to the submerged bank of a brand new side creek that is gushing over a twelve foot cliff into the Havasu creek. What was a dry side canyon hours ago now gushes to life.  The water is thick with mud, rock and red sand. There is an usual smell in the air, like the damp earth of a cave, like sulfur. It smells damp yet dry. The thick water is still shooting out over the cliff like projectile vomit. It has been an hour since Cedar and Ruby heard the grumbling roar that sent them running up the bank out of the draw. The flow has slowed considerably. They show me a video they had been shooting, a panorama of this spot.

   Ruby's video dialog; 'Here are all the elements of a possible flash flood.... the rain, the dry creek bed, water pouring over the rim of the canyon..... I don't know why there is only a small trickle here, it has rained hard for hours now'.  The video abruptly ends, this is where they hear and smell it coming. A feeling of panic, an overdose of adrenalin, refrigerator size boulders falling from the cliffs pushed by the unexpected flood. Cedar is concerned about the boats. 'They could never have ridden that sudden amount of water out.... they're gone for sure' No. They can't be gone. They were tied tight to the wall..... it will let them raise up and the ride the flood wave out.... maybe, just maybe they are still there..... I want to hurry and see.

     We wade across again, just above the side creek created by the flash flood. The water is just about up to our chests, but it is still gentle, unlike the mudflow that has taken over the canyon below us. Larry and Elaine are still down there, somewhere, in the canyon below. I feel anxious, alert, like something important is pending, like when you see a mountain lion in your yard.  All my senses are heightened.... adrenalin.

    Ten minutes later we find Larry. Hallelujah! I see him slip down the last bit of bank to join us. 'Oh man, am I glad to see you all. I thought I was a goner' He had climbed the hillside when the flood rushed passed him, taking higher ground. His video dialog: 'something is happening. Oh man this is not good. The water is rising, I better get out of here. This is bad.' As the water rises he turns the camera on himself, gives a loving good bye to his family and settles in atop a huge rock for the night. Luckily we are together, now. I start thinking about Elaine, what if something really bad has happened to her. My natural state of 'worrisome mother' kicks in and I imagine all sorts of scary scenarios. Michael was the last one to see her and he said she was sunbathing near the mouth of the canyon, near the boats. I feel the gritty feeling of dread. 

     We come to yet another river crossing.  The current is strong but it is only thigh deep.  We decide to use the three buddy system.  I grip Matt and Larry's arm and we begin to slowly rotate across the creek.  Wouldn't you know it I lose my footing and pull Matt down with me, his eyes are startled wide open and seem to say to me 'Oh mom!'.  Larry has a solid foot hold and we are soon recovered.  My legs and feet are sandblasted with the age old clay and bruised by rolling rocks.  They begin to swell... just a bit.  We decide not to cross again.  I walk in the back  of the line with Larry and Bob, urging speed.  Soon we come to another ford. 'NO way' is the consensus.  We start to bushwhack along the cliff wall.  Matt is out front scouting a through route, our 'indian scout'.  The rock climbing is doable, but a bit challenging for some.  Finally we scramble down a rock ledge and find the path which has crossed the creek again to join us.

As we walk alongside the water we notice fish scattered on the ground, left behind by the flood.  Larry picks one up that must be a 22 inch brown trout  'Look at this one.  We can't leave this one behind'.  I agree we should bring it ...'for dinner tonight' I say jokingly.

We have come miles and still no Elaine.  We trudge on, sometimes on the path  and sometimes not, for often it dips down under this new, bigger creek.  It is still clear but threatening clouds begin to move across the small patch of visible sky.  Finally we spot some of out river mates and hear the greatly appreciated story of Elaine's rescue. She had been standing on a rock ledge on the opposite wall of the canyon, no path to the right or left and no way to get any higher, the water had risen to within a few feet below the shelf. Four of the bigger guys formed a human chain into the creek, Adam was chest high. First she threw her backpack to see how well they could catch and then she jumped in the raging mud hoping to be grabbed.  She climbed from one to the other until she was safe on our side, the trail side of the messy water.

We are all here, together. What a strong feeling of togetherness I feel ... I never want to be apart again, not until things fall back into place anyhow.  Soon I hear the sad news of our boats departure, disappearance, detachment.  They are gone, kaput, discombobulated, headed down river with all our precious possesions ...and more importantly WITHOUT us!

I climb the last half mile hauling mama trout in one hand, fingers hooked through her useless gills and grabbing hand holds in in the rock wall with the other.

In the late afternoon sun I sit on the hard, cold rock on the cliff that overlooks the spewing mouth of the Havasu Creek.  I just stare at the place our boats should be. I am thirsty, no one has any water left, we didn't really take enough for the hike in the first place.  All our food, all our water, all our warm clothes, and sleeping equipment, and shelter, and fire starting stuff, EVERYTHING is gone... rushing down stream ... headed down the mighty Colorado, riding the great wave in the freak flash flood.  I think with apprehension 'did I retie the straps after I undid them for my back pack ???!?Did I tighten the one that holds down Matt's kayak???!? How many did I loosen and how many things will hang on when the Zambezi FLIPs!?!?!

part five

     The ground under my butt is hard and cold and the pointy rocks hurt.... but I just sit there anyway, my emotional body and my physical body well on the way to exhaustion. It starts to rain again. Shana has been spelling out our new plan. Get shelter, start a fire, dry our pathetically insufficient clothes out, find drinkable water, pool our snacks and get ready for the night. Tomorrow we will flag down a commercial trip and try to catch our wayward rafts.

     A quarter mile back up stream is a pretty big overhang that diverts the rain. Firewood is readily available, there is a stack of driftwood under the huge logs that runs parallel to the canyon wall in our new 'dusty-but-dry' camp. It has been deposited here by an ancient flash flood.  I have distinct eye contact with my friends, as we slowly, deliberately discuss an emergency exit should the river raise up this far. I am reminded of the earthquake and fire drills of my elementary school years.

     Soon a fire is crackling and people are hanging there soppy clothes on the rocks that protrude from the wall. The rain is coming down in rivulets, we gingerly place our water bottles under them and wait expectantly for the gritty liquid they will yield. It is dark. I am cold, we are all cold. Some of us have only bikini tops. Any extra shirts and pants are distributed.  The food is pooled, beef jerky, oranges, two cookies, a few power bars, some seaweed and dried papaya spears. We start claiming sleeping spots. The ground is not level and there are only small patches that are not rocks.

     Luckily the youngest crew member brought his knife with its one and a half inch blade. Cedar somehow finds the energy to clean the mighty trout.  He slaps it down on the log, her body muddy from the still flooding creek. How shall we cook her? Cut her up into steaks and skew them with marshmallow sticks? Someone comes up with a piece of tinfoil their sandwich had been wrapped in. After the rain has rinsed her clean she is wrapped up tight with her head and tail exposed and thrown onto the red coals. Oh how wondrous the aroma, how glorious the taste. Each of us gets a fork full.... yes Matt has come up with a FORK from his backpack. It is a meal I will not soon forget.

     Exhausted I rub an indention into the dirt with my cheek and shoulder and fade away into shivery sleep.  I wake to the smoldering embers and notice a few others are stirring. We build up the fire and sit around bullshitting quietly. Shawnee asks Matt what time it is, for he is the only one with a time piece.  A hefty time piece at that, the one he bought to assist him with his EMT endeavors.  He looks down and slowly, silently shakes his head. "Eleven thirty."  Shawnee lets out a soft squeal "This is going to be the longest night of my life".  Its crazy.... I thought it was predawn, I had hoped it was predawn. I am pretty over it, the relentless cold, the warmth seeping ground, but my mind doesn't stray far from the moment, from the now, and the only thing I want is right now is sleep. I cuddle a warm stone from near the fire and drift off again.

     The next thing I know my eyes shoot open and my head is full of sound.... BIG sound. People shouting, running, tripping over my inert body. "Run!" But there is something bigger, something louder, like a freight-train's roar filling the canyon, bearing down on us. Oh god, its another flash flood! I grab my shoes and join the mad rush up the trail to our 'higher ground' emergency spot.

     Here we are again, sitting on the cold, hard ground with the pointy, hurtful rocks ... watching the creek turn into a turmoil of churning foam. In the moonlight I see the thick water climb steadily up the opposite wall, one rock crack after another is covered. It rises for over two hours and then plateaus off. It does not recede for another few hours, and then only slightly. We huddle together on a 'not-so-big' ledge. Elijah spreads over a few laps soaking up all the warmth he can absorb.  Oh man, when is this night going to end. My head hurts.

part six

Well as always, morning comes and with it the gloriously warm sun. Funny how the day seems to wash away the importance of a cruel night.  I drink rainwater from the puddles in the rocks. We are all anxious for nine o-clock to roll around. That is what time we expect the other river trips to start passing by. Shana and Matt shimmy along the cliff that runs alongside the Colorado, upstream to a large eddy.  For there is no eddy at the mouth of the Havasu anymore, not even a tiny one, just a monstrous current intersection. Even after six hours the water continues to thump, the creek swollen with violent velocity.  I watch as propane tanks, debris and thirty foot trees quiver and shake at the intersection before they are swallowed up by the muddy Colorado. The Colorado has also risen noticeably. There must have been other canyons that flashed last night.  But, what kind of flash flood lasts this long?.... I guess it's raining pretty hard somewhere up there on the giant plateau that drains into this watershed, Dead Horse I think its called.  Ruby stands on the hill,  higher and around the bend to flag any oncoming boats in. They all have whistles.

     Suddenly we hear an engine. It is a helicopter, the whopping sound echos of the canyons walls overpowering the sound of the river.  They buzz by us and we tap our heads in the universal OK sign. They seem to be counting us. Too bad we are on cliffs. I can't imagine them landing here. They fly off and Ruby spots a commercial raft trip on its way down. YEAH! Matt jumps off the cliff into the waiting raft.

     They give him a PFD (personal flotation device) and send him back with a backpack full of gorp and water. He ties it off using his flip line and I haul it up to some very grateful hands. Matt relays the news from the commercial rafts. Someone reported our guideless boats to the Parks service around eight o-clock last night, each trip is supplied with a satellite phone .... too bad ours is AWAL with our runaway boats. They think the boats have been corralled by another helpful group. These guys have five extra PFDs and are willing to take that many of us down river with them. They are sure other trips will follow and we will all soon be on our way downstream.  Cool, I am ready to go.  I was not looking forward to hiking back up this crazy canyon ten miles to the Havasupai village, and then another eight and a half up to the rim. My feet are twice the size they should be and my shoes are too tight, even with the adjustable straps!  Ouch.

part seven

 

   Just before Matt climbs the face to rejoin us we hear the chopper again. We stand flabbergasted and watch it LAND! It is on the other side of the Havasu creek but it lands none the less. WOW.  Ruby and Cedar confer with the park rangers across the smallest part of the canyon, they are about 15 feet apart. The rangers are a special rescue unit known as the yellow and black.

     For me time stands still for a moment.  Like the centrifuge brakes on a huge turbine engine that is about to change directions, I slow the inertia of plan A and get ready for plan B.  Their news is enlightening and threatening, an earthen dam gave way last night and another one forty miles away has released a far greater volume which should be here soon. Oh wow... again.

     A game begins, an ancient game, the game of cat and mouse, protector and victim, fear and reaction. We begin to shift from in command to victim. They are here to execute a rescue.  When we talk about our plans they counter with theirs, unquestionably the better... the only. "We will save you all" We are scattered, the information comes in fragments, our ideas are countered with new ones, our options seem to dwindle. I still feel the powerful feeling of 'sticking together' that began with the urgency of our situation, the feeling that has created our tight functioning group, the relief of being all together.  So now, after one more question, 'how much will it cost', we concede.  The minute that decision is made the conversation turns to commands .... it is out of our hands, we listen and wait for the next move.

     I watch as their spokesman explains the procedure. He is kneeling, telling us not to worry, we are in good hands.  They haven't actually done a rescue of this size before but they are prepared... they practice for this every year. His body language expresses excitement, nervousness and .... is that fear? He squats on the other side of the canyon, smiling, wringing his hands. His eyes dart from one person to the other as if he is sizing us up, counting and judging our abilities and weaknesses.

part eight

     They have decided on a 'short haul' to get us to their side of the creek and then a helicopter ride out of the canyon. Cedar jokingly says 'don't you have a ladder or plank?', implying that the gap between us seems so small. I think a zip line is in order. But no, they want do a short haul, which means we dangle from a carabiner a hundred feet above the rocks and raging water.  The idea is growing on me, let's go.

     First they hook themselves up to the cable and rise up ever so slowly, silhouetted against the sky, under the belly of the helicopter.   I am impressed with the steadiness of the pilot, the tail has no propeller just two jets that are constantly moving.  The chopper sways in the gusts of wind but the cable stays steady, I see the pilot watching from the window.  Two of them are on our side now. I am fascinated by 'the procedure', they are definitely functioning 'by the book'.  Everyone has a job, everything has an order and things run smoothly.  We are grouped together on the ledge, 'everyone in sight at all times'.

    The excitement is increasing. Its our turn now. Two at a time we slip on the 'diaper' and walk to the edge of the cliff. The ranger snaps the carabiner of our harness to the suspended cable.  A good-bye tap on my back and the straps begin to tighten.  Hip to hip shoulder to shoulder we are lifted so gently off the ground. I look up and see the pilot looking down at us like the friendly face of God.

     It is not like the tense 'Charlton Heston' rescue films. There is no whistling wind in our ears, no frayed ropes or shuttering lines frightening us into thinking about our emanate death. It is more like a Disneyland ride, the gondola above the park, the 5 story ferris wheel with the incredible view. Our friends get smaller and smaller as we gently glide to the opposite bank.  The landing is just as incredulous, I've hit the ground harder dismounting my horse. 

part nine

     Soon we are being schooled about the next leg of the adventure. They hand out five fireproof jump suits, which are gladly donned by the semi naked, and helmets. We listen as we are told the fourth revised plan of where we will actually end up tonight and what to do in case of a helicopter crash. "There are two toggle switches located in the center of the dashboard, flip those down. Then below them you will see two more switches with red lights above them, flip those down also. These turn off the fuel pumps. The side windows can be unlatched and kicked out. Remain in the cabin until all the moving propeller parts have stopped ..... unless it is on fire, in which case you try to get out as fast as possible."   ( -:   OK then, lets have a go at it, yeepee.

     Of course in reality we now play the 'hurry up and wait' game. It is 'us' and 'them', and they have our back packs, and we are thirsty again and hungry!  We have been ordered to stay together in sight at all times .... over here. Ruby braves the protocol and ventures into their territory to retrieve her backpack, which has her lip salve in it. She even takes on the roll of 'Oliver Twist' and asks for 'water... please'. Before being shooed away from their debriefing, she is handed one of the rangers  personal, half full nalgene bottles. A hole in the 'procedure' has been discovered, they do not have water for sixteen very thirsty victims.

     I see Matt soaking it all in, he seems stoked. "That will be me in two years, mom." He is a eighteen year old EMT on his way to Paramedic school next Spring. Yes I can see him joining the rescue unit of some national park... right up his alley.  Ruby is doing a homey break dance move in her oversized jumpsuit sporting her cap bill to the side. Cedar squeezes horizontally under a ledge the size of a coffin to get out of the rain. We wait..... and wait.

     An hour later we are drinking ice cold gator-aide and crystal bottled water. A tiny police helicopter lands and drops off a blue ice chest. 'Yeah, the BEER is here' Not. But how welcoming is this drink. 'Drink up my friends, for this is probably the most expensive drink you will ever experience in your lifetime'  How much does a helicopter delivered gator-aide cost anyway?

finally

    Finally the time has come to lift off. There will be four trips, the chopper can only fit four passengers at a time, I am designated to the last one. The round trip takes almost an hour so we wait some more. Just before we jump in up walk four boat type rangers. They have been sent to retrieve our wayward rafts. Apparently only one has been captured and the others are headed towards the biggest rapid of the whole stretch, the notorious 'LAVA'. "Come with us and row your boats down" they say tauntingly. Oh man I wish we could. I really want to see those last river miles and canyon hikes, but alas it is not so be.

     The view from inside the helicopter is like no other I will ever see again. We fly up the flooded canyon and see Mooney Falls brown and gushy and the green valley where the Havasupai people "the people of the blue green water" have lived for hundreds of years.  Can you imagine parking your car on the rim, taking the groceries out and then hiking eight and half miles to the house? That would take a different mind set. Everything looks so different than it did yesterday. How wild mother nature is.... especially helped towards disaster by mankind. This pristine paradise will be changed forever.

     We arrive at the emergency staging area where the Red cross  is handing out army MREs and blankets.  Blackhawk helicopters are evacuating tourists out of the Havasu wilderness.  National emergency vehicles are everywhere...no repeat of New Orleans here.  Then it is a bus ride to the reservation town of Peach Springs.

     On the way we encounter a roadblock set up by the natural disaster team to begin the job of accounting for every person in the area. I remember the sleeping bags and pads down by Beaver Falls, ten hikers are still unaccounted for. A TV crew boards the bus and asks if anyone is ready to give a firsthand account of the events, we're not... too tired and dirty.  Little did we know there would be nine national TV station camera crews waiting at the high school gymnasium that is doubling as the Red cross center tonight, home sweet home.

     And it was sweet, I have not appreciated a shower quite as much since. Turns out we and four other hikers were the only ones to utilize the cot and blanket accommodations.  The villagers all seemed to have a relative to stay with.  But oh the stories I heard..... well they will take a whole new page to retell.

     Now here is the real mystery of this crazy adventure. When our 'outfitters superior' picks us up and reunites us with the rafts, EVERYTHING is here!!!  The four renegade rafts have navigated Lava Falls rapid on their own and they all did it without FLIPping! Even my map which was hastily slipped under my seat strap is still here and DRY. To me this is the craziest part of the story.  We all laugh when Matt says 'well now we know ..... all you have to do to make it through Lava is stop paddling a few miles above!'

Part one: Journey through Kenya

This is me sportin my fancy Kenyan doo, my hair is really quite short. Extentions... everyones doin it.

journey day 1,2,3

A ride across Kenya

I am a woman and I want to ride my bicycle across Kenya. I am forty eight, white, an artist and mother of four beautiful young men. On this journey I will be traveling alone. People just shake their heads and try to talk some sense into me. I am not sure of my route, but I know I want to see the Serengeti, the Maasai Mara. I begin my journey in Kisumu, a small city on the western side of Kenya and the eastern side of Lake Victoria, where I have been helping with a nonprofit bike project. I don’t know if I will succeed in making it all the way to Nairobi, but I will try.
My bike is an old specialized 'hard rock' I bought off Craig’s list for forty five dollars, and I have already replaced the tires and tubes, the front sprocket, the front wheel bearings and the bottom bracket. The tubes are heaviest fatty tubes I have ever seen, donated to me by my only sponsor, Amsterdam Bicycles in Santa Cruz. Oh, except for my sweet sis who donated a nearly new xtracycle, and two very cute bike mechanics who primped, preened and transformed an ordinary mountain bike into the ‘Almighty African explorer’. Thank you Kim, Shawn, Davin and Amsterdam Bikes!!, The tires have stubby mountain bike tread, miss-matched front and back, one bought in Nairobi and one in Kisumu. Mountain bikes don't really exist in Kenya yet and it is hard to find any parts, in this case 26 inch tires. The frame is a good size for me and the seat is comfortable while a bit bulky and worn out. I have attached the used xtracycle on the back and I am carrying 35 kilos in provisions, including camping gear, food, water and spare bike parts.
I have been in Kenya for almost six weeks. I have lived in Nairobi with friends, climbed Mount Kenya, traveled to Mombassa along the east coast and the source of the Nile, Ginja Uganda. I worked in Kisumu with my friends on the world bike project and now I want to see the rest of Kenya.
I choose cycling because I like experiencing a place via bicycle. I can hear the birds, feel the rain and smell the flowers as well as the decaying carcasses.
I have had a hard time finding dried or dehydrated food that will not spoil, I have settled for some top-ramin, over dry gristle jerky, salted banana chips and some canned fish. My water capacity is three liters, with iodine tablets.
My map is the freytag & berndtersion of Kenya Tanzania and Uganda. It is too big, but I have searched in vain for a more localized detailed one. What's up with that google earth??!? I have no compass but I do have a small digital camera and binoculars. I do not speak Kiswahili but I am bringing a phrase book
I begin tomorrow.



Day 1

I finally say good bye to the hours, the days of preparation and waiting. I say kua heri to my friends in Kisumu. I kiss the girls cheeks and hug John in front of the Mamba hotel. I ride through the busy city, the busy market, the busy streets not knowing what to expect, just knowing that I am going. My only experience with the road ahead was the bumping grueling bus ride from Nairobi, which wasn’t much since I had been too sick to look out the window.
I pedal down the main Nairobi road, alongside it really, on a path well worn by the feet of many pedestrians and the wheels of plenty of boda bikes. It is hot but not too hot. There are no hills. I am joined by other bike riders now and again, they are all men. I begin to hear the mantra they will recite to me my whole trip, ‘It is too far’. I keep my cadence for about five hours, interrupted only once by a shiny silver SUV, Hosea the missionary. He had called me a few weeks earlier, while I was in Nairobi. Hosea does his work in Kisumu, he had seen Phanice riding my bike there. He was intrigued by the Xtracycle work horse feature and called to see if I would sell it to him. Right now he stopped because of the bike not me, but we have a nice conversation and he wished me a safe journey…. a wish I become very familiar with.
I ride the day light away and stop just after a town called Katito. The thunder has begun and the wind. The wind is mighty before the daily storm. The ground is still flat and I think… I could camp just about anywhere. I ask and like always in Kenya I am granted. I camp on a millet and maze farm with the Obura family. Joseph, Isaac, Phillip, Milisant, Elizabeth, Maurice, Richard, Matheus and Little George… otherwise known as El Niño for his stormy eyes and moody character. All but Milisant live on the 400 acre farm. Their Father and Mother having the most established homesite.
I stay with Phillip, his wife Caroline and their two boys Bruno and Runi. The baby Runi is sick with the malaria. I sit in their two roomed house made of pole construction, metal roof and cow dung plaster walls. I sip a stiff cup of tea with the men of the family, Joseph, Phillip and Richard. The woman prepare and serve but do not join us. Being a British colony everyone in Kenya prepares the same cup of tea they call chai. It has strong black Kenyan tea, boiled milk and two heaping teaspoons of sugar, sometimes they add a spice called masala.

Joseph the oldest is a ‘fundi’ which, in this case, means carpenter. A bike ‘fundi’ repairs bikes, metal ‘fundi’ welds, but a ‘fundi’ just builds things. He proudly shares that he built his home in one day. The windows are glass covered with metal grates like all windows in Kenya, and there are old calendars high up on the walls, well above eye level.
Joseph is overwhelmed with the hope of sponsorship from a muzungu…. me in this case. It’s as if somewhere in the Kenyan social guide it is written that you must attain a mzungu ‘contact’ before anything miraculous can happen to you. He leans close to me and tells me of the hardships and problems his family endures. The crop is only grown once a year for six months, because of the rain. The drought hit them hard. He must find work the other six months. He went to welding school but could not finish, He wants to learn to drive but the cost is too much. He wants to be trained as car ‘fundi’ but that means leaving his family and moving to Nairobi. He relates a story about his neighbor who went away to Italy and returned with much money, this neighbor even took his mother to live in Italy. For some reason he thinks I come from the UK, it doesn’t really matter where I come from it is just out of Kenya to him. His efforts annoy me.
I ask ‘is your neighbor’s mother happy there?’ He looks at me confused. I try to tell him that his life here is rich. He has work as a farmer and carpenter, a sturdy home and his family all around; plus the land is beautiful and the school is not far. I annoy him.
I ask Caroline to join us. ‘Aren’t you going to join us?” Phillip looks at me for understanding, then trying to appease my every desire, indicates her to join us. She sits and nervously smiles. She gulps a cup of tea, and then disappears into the kitchen. The kitchen is a separate building with a one hole charcoal burning, stove for cooking, this kitchen alternates as a barn to keep the chickens and goats safe at night. I learn not to rock the boat where woman are concerned…. well maybe I learn.
“If god desires we will keep in contact and you will help me get to the UK.” Joseph says over and over. I feel like I am only dollar signs to his eyes. They ask me nothing about my home or my travels, what I have seen or what I think. Kenya has her hand out asking to receive. The children are taught to ask any mzungu for sustenance. “anything” they say “ anything you can give me will help” I want to tell them what I have seen as a traveler, my observations. Kenya has a poison spreading through her…. and I don’t mean AIDS… greed and envy. It touches the hearts of many. "Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy?" Proverbs 29:4
I try to understand. Joseph is the oldest, he feels responsible for the welfare of his family and the next generation. His father has provided for so many, he has given land to his children and their families. The father, Drismas, works all night as a security guard, and takes his machete and the grand boys into the fields in the morning. Security has to be the number one industry following tourism here.
The mother Mary, is in her early fifties. She has nine children. Her youngest, George is about eight years old and her eldest is thirty four. Her daughter Elizabeth is twenty two and has a year old baby. Elizabeth is not married and lives with her parents. She is well educated and bright, she dreams of becoming a nurse.
I spend the night cozy in my tent. Before I leave I give them my ‘contact’ and three hundred schillings. They seem pacified as if they have accomplished what they needed to, although what they have accomplished is still a bit confusing to them. Perhaps it is the beginning of the road to the garden of edan, paradise, the promise land, all their hopes, dreams and desires can now be had….. god willing.
I want to tell them that Kenya must help herself. The businesses and economy must thrive from with in. She is like an adolescent child wanting the keys to the car, another few bucks for the movies, a season ski pass.



Day 2

HILLS! A whole day of up hills. The first one is into Sondu. I thought wow up hill changes things, glad that’s over. But oh no, the biggest one leads out of Sondu and winds up, up, and up. I am escorted by a bicyclist delivering milk and millet in old reused gerry cans. We rarely talk but I gather info gradually. He rides… or rather pushes his bike up this hill everyday, fills his buckets then returns, delivering on the way. We share peanuts and he asks me to take his photo. We laugh at the results, Kenyans love to see their images in the screen, an unusual experience I suppose. We summit at Sigowet I stop for a coke, baridi, I really want chocolate but none is to be found for the duration of my trip, no 'baridi' coke either, most fridges are just cubbards. He moves on with a sad look. I feel sad, I miss his company… I should have offered him a coke.
The girl in the shop is thrilled. She sits by me and laughs at every word I say. Her head falls onto my shoulder, she is laughing, gitty, nervous, thrilled. Biggest thing to happen in her day or maybe her month.
I ride through the most beautiful mountain farmlands, tea, maze, pineapple. Richness, beautiful homesteads, lush growth. Green hedges, paths running up and down the hill through the fields, no roads, no driveways. There are no fences, the animals are attended by shepards, usually young boys. They graze near the road and crops keeping the grass short, everything looks trimmed and clean.
My bike bell is broken. It rings constantly over every little bump. I feel bad The ring of a bike bell in Kenya, like the honk of a car horn, means 'GET OUT OF THE WAY', and I send many an old lady jumping to the side unnecessarily.
The day wears on and my destination eludes me, it starts to rain. I have brought large garbage bags to put over my backpack and tent, I have raincoat and pants but opt not to wear them because, for one I am already wet and two it is too hot, I am working hard, pedaling up hill. Too many hills, too slow, not enough strength. I make it to the cross roads near Letein, 30km short of planned destination, Sotik. I have only traveled 64Km today.
It is 4:30, I stop for food. It is always crazy when I come to a ‘town’. There are always people milling about everywhere, and garbage strewn all over. I can tell I’m coming to a ‘center’ when plastic bags and bottles start to line the road. Lean-to sheds housing everything from nik-naks to food items line both sides of the street. There is a matatu or bus stop in the middle of it all. There is always a kind of tense madness surrounding the matatus, a frenzy. I push my bike through the mud to a ‘hotel’ which means restaurant here. Everyone’s eyes are on me from the time I arrive in such places until the time I leave.
After being approached by several people stepping over each other to attend to me, I relate my desires, food and camping. The room is cozy and warm when I sit down I realize how tired and cold I am. Chai is always ready and hot in places like these, Kenyan tea boiled with milk, I drink cup after cup as I wait for my eggs and chapatis. Concerned looks over the camping request. Perhaps the school… ah but, no one is there for it is Easter break. Where will there be a secure place? I have brought a problem with this question.
The young waitress that is serving me invites me to stay at her home. I agree and there is a great relief of tension. She looks proud and everyone smiles. A line of people come to see the mzungu. Conversation with different citizens that speak English. One ‘cousin’ wants her photo taken, they all line up along the wall…. as many as can fit. I am nervous that my camera will not work, it uses AA batteries and they are almost depleted. I have tried to buy batteries here but they don’t seem to have enough juice to run it at all. Is it possible that the batteries sold here are of lesser quality than ours?


After food I am lead to her home, a 12’ X12’ cement walled room. There is an enclosed toilet stall in a separate building around the corner. Water is heated on a paraffin burning stove for me to wash with. The coffee table is stacked onto the single cabinet and an extra mattress is placed on the floor, I get the couch. Five of us sleep safe that night, with my bike also inside, Betty, her sister, her lover, a friend, and me. Now I know why there are always so many people milling about, homes have just enough room for sleep.



Day 3

Letein then Sotik pass by. The upgrades mellow out. I ride all day through farm country the view sometimes opening to show the plains below. The Maasai Mara. I thank goodness for every descent. I get intense stares from the young men on bikes, no women ride here. I ask a man why and he answers ‘because it is serious… it is a business’. Yea, so, ‘why don’t more girls ride?’ I ask again. He shakes his head as if I didn’t understand his English.
I pass a group of young men and get some pretty serious mean looks. For the first time I am a little nervous. They follow me. Up hills they struggle to ride their turn of the century bikes at all, while I ride and carry 35kilos (about 75lbs…I have to get a lighter tent) behind me. Down hills they pass me in triumph. This goes on for half the day. Visions of an isolated ambush cross my mind. They begin to peel off at different cross roads, one is stickier than the rest, he still shows up around every turn.
Then I pick up a real threat. At first I thought he was the village idiot, which he may be, but soon realize he is drunker than a skunk. Sorry skunks…. what’s up with that, I know skunks don’t drink.
Excited, freaky, my new admirer follows me up the hill….damn this hill…why such a steep one, I am pushing my bike. Closer and closer he gets with his wild hand gestures and slurred words. I hear him summoning every word of English that he can muster. He is trying to get a reaction from me, I am trying to ignore him. Finally he begins to touch me, I say firmly and loudly ‘go home!’. He stops, he looks confused, he points down the hill ‘home down dare’. I say 'Yes GO HOME' still pushing hurriedly. I wonder how am I going to get out of this one. That’s when I notice my ‘mean staring’ bicycler, he stands in the road. He looks into my eyes, a message is passed. He engages is a short conversation with ‘senior loco’ and the threat passes. My adversary becomes my hero.
As the afternoon rains approach my destination is, again, unobtainable. I must find shelter. I have traveled 78Km today.


I must find shelter. I ask fellow road mates for possible camping spots, they point and say ‘center’. That is what people here call anything remotely resembling a town square, in this case a church with a fruit stand shed on the roadside. I consider a homestead of Maasai huts, circular earthen buildings with thatched roofs, smoke rising straight through the thatch. The practice of cooking inside the hut, with a charcoal jiko, smokes the mosquitoes out for the night. I would like to stay in one sometime…. not in the stars for this night.
I ask again, a middle aged man whose gaunt face reveals every curve of his skull. ‘I am Johnston, I am the pastor of this church, perhaps you can stay here.’ He pronounces it John Stone, but when he writes it down for me it is Johnston. The church stands on a hill side behind a rock wall, it is surrounded by short green grass, ‘yes I would like that.’ He begins to lead me down the muddy boulder strewn road, we are met by a young boy. ‘You are being summons’ Johnston tells me. I raise my eyebrows...‘Invited’ he corrects. The boy leads us to a wooden milling shed, there sits my real host, Joshua. He is a very large., old man with torn open ear lobes and his lower front teeth missing in traditional Maasai fashion but otherwise dressed in western clothes. He introduces himself as a Kalenjin. The men’s clothes here are usually dress shirts with ties and suit jackets much worn, threadbare to be honest. I notice most men’s ties have white worn lines on the creases, as if they are never untied just loosened and then re-worn the next day. The fashions reflect downtown Oakland in the early sixties, I remember holding my fathers hand while walking through SF and seeing the same felt derbies and shiny penny loafers.
I am directed to an empty wooden chair, a handmade willow branch type. There are many children of all ages. Curled up in the sawdust at Joshua’s feet is a striped cat, an unusual sight here in Kenya. There is also a lean shepherd like dog, a much more common sight. My host and I speak through Johnston the interrupter. We run through the usual while chai is being prepared. Where am I from, where am I going, what country do I live in, so on and so on. The view from the shed is stunning. Green rolling farmland spilling into the plains…. the Maasai Mara, almost within grip. As the evening turns, animals pass by us in herds headed to their night quarters, young boys attending their chores. When the chai comes the children are dismissed, but they still peer at me through the slits in the barn siding. Some women come and go with the tray of tea, carefully stepping over fresh cow pies. They do not join us. Finally it is time to secure my night quarters. We begin as a procession down, then up the hillside. My bike is heavy, like it always is at the end of the day.
The house we come to is a huge western style ranch house, apparently built by missionaries from Arizona. I say I want to stay in my tent, but end up staying inside. The house has not been used for some time, it is not well kept. The windows are all blocked with forty year old curtains holding forty years of dust. The walls are bare except for the mold and pealing paint. Oh I take that back, there are photos of the late president Moi and some old calendars…. 2002 as I recall. This is very common I have found, bare walls with expired calendars and presidential photos, although usually they are of the current president. Johnston has informed me that Joshua has close ties to the ex president Moi, for he is a Kalenjin also. I shutter at my memories of the things I read about old President Moi.
I am wet from the rain, Johnston shows me to the wash room. My bike is placed in a locked fourier. Everything is filthy, there is a toilet, but no toilet seat, also very common. The shower is above the toilet, there is a drain in the floor, which runs directly through the wall to the grass out side. The hot water hasn’t worked in years. Johnston starts a fire in the kitchen fireplace and hangs a cast iron pot of water above it. Water is collected from the rain runoff from the roofs, I am glad I am here during rainy season, otherwise there would not be enough water to clean with. I gingerly use the warm water he brings in a basin and wash myself…. thank goodness for my flip flops. I wash some clothes by headlamp as well. Passing by in the hallway I hear a surprised huh!?! Headlamps are not common.
Then there is a sputtering and electric lights….generator. Joshua has been waiting in the living room for me. I am uncomfortable around him, he has an ominous presense. I have learned that he has four wives and … well I never figured out how many children and grand children, they are not important enough to be introduced to me. His farm is a little over 800 hectors, which is roughly 1600 acres.
We sit in silence, Johnston is attending to dinner at some other location. Joshua shows me a hymnbook with English titles and Kiswahili verses. He points to ‘Oh come all ye faithful’ and then proceeds to sing. The empty room, the empty house is filled for a moment with a very plain male voice singing an almost monotone hymn. I squirm in my seat. When he is through he places the book on the coffee table, still looking forward. Silence again. I sit with my arms folded in my lap. Finally I begin to sing my version of 'Come all ye faithful', an old Christmas carol. Now he looks uncomfortable.
Finally Johnston and a little helper come with the food. The three of us sit around a table with a bare florescent bulb above us. I have informed them I am allergic to corn so that I may avoid eating ugali and scuma. I am served rice and fried eggs with their version of catsup. They are served ugali and scuma and eat it with their hands. Scuma means push in Swahili, the saying comes from ‘push the week’, scuma is a dark green leafy vegetable that when added to ugali pushes hunger away for the week.
After dinner we are visited by two young girls, they speak English, thank god. They are bright and beautiful, they invite me to the Easter sermon the next morning. We talk about Kenya, and my adventure… I feel happy. I am sorry to see them go.
I retire to my bedroom. Everything is filthy. There are cobwebs on the ceiling, the walls are discolored by time. The curtain is heavy with dirt. I remove the covers and put my cotton sheet down. My sleep is troubled by night mares, some about my dad and one about Matt, Davin and me bodysurfing in some huge maverick waves. What the hell are we going to do when we reach the bottom! Luckily dreams have a way of just ending without an ending. I am alone in the house with Joshua. I am nervous. He is a fat old man and shuffles down the hall several times during the night to the toilet. I hear the farts and grunts of old age, and thank god every time my door is left untouched.
By morning I am a wreck, all I can think of is getting on my bike. Breakfast is another long drawn out affair. I am asked how I slept several times. I finally spill the truth and we laugh uncomfortably. The girls join us with one of the eldest sons, who also speaks English. I now realize why they were chosen. Joshua talks about how god has brought us all here together, how it is His plan, how we should be thankful, on and on. Johnston faithfully interprets. They tell me that the bike project is admirable and could be gratefully utilized here in this valley where, thousands of hectors and hundreds of farms that are not accessible by cars… no roads just paths. Incredible. They tell me I could walk straight to the Mara from here in six hours on these paths. I ache to do just that.
I inform them that it is important for me to travel in the morning because of the afternoon rains, I decline participating in the sermon. They understand because the roads are dirt and become impassable to all vehicles every evening. In conclusion they choose a hymn and proceed to sing amazing gospel music in two-part harmony, right there at the table. Wow. I decide to see the sermon… just for a bit. What a pleasure. The acoustics in the small brick building are amazing. Everyone is rocking, it’s crazy the way it makes me feel. I ride away happy, renewed.