Toroweap, Arizona: Betrayal On The Lava Falls Route (cont.)

Around us, low-growing cacti hide among the boulders. At one point, Mark slips and a two-inch thorn impales his hand. He is in severe pain but there is nothing we can do. We trudge down for a couple of hours, jogging and sliding, arms stretched like surfers, until we round a bend and the Colorado appears below. It is brown and wide; even from far up we can see its powerful current.

Behind us, the canyon walls rise, vertical and impenetrable. Going back seems a fool’s dream but I put off such thoughts. My thighs are already pulsating from the zealous workout I have forced them into.

As we continue, the view of the river grows as does and the distant roar of the Lava Falls, still invisible downstream. We hit a spot where the canyon wall has broken off and collapsed toward the river. The cairns disappear; the route is unmarked from here on.

We slide down the volcanic dirt to a drop that appears to be a dead end. Retreating will demand an inhuman effort; there is a possible way down if we thread across a precarious ledge. A hundred feet lower we hit the real dead end. Under us are two hundred feet of jagged rock before the final descent to the river.

My heart skips. We have no way to go but to crawl back up hundreds of feet, in the soft dirt we have just used to slide down so easily. Resting now is a luxury; every lost second takes us away from reaching the river. We bite the bullet and begin the climb. My feet can't get a hold and my heart races from the massive pressure.

For every three steps I frantically take forward, I slide two backwards. I start to slide back unable to stop, and a desperate grab of a jutting rock saves me from flying over the edge.

As I dig heels into the dirt for a foothold, my heart threatens to explode and my lungs squeeze air from nothing.  I can barely drag my body over the boulder at the top of the section and I proceed to drop lifelessly to the ground.

All said and done, the detour has robbed us of a precious hour.

We gather our breath and persist down towards the river. But will isn't enough anymore. My legs refuse to hold me, buckling at the knees with every step. The thigh muscles have turned to mush.

It is almost three o’clock, and the sun will set at six thirty.

“We already lost the route in broad daylight,” Mark says. “Climbing back at night is suicide.”

The Colorado flows barely a few hundred feet below, eternal and massive and smelling of wet earth. I want to reach it, to dip my feet in it and wave at startled passing rafters. The arrogance of thinking that we could make it in a day has betrayed us, I think. 

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