River Run

by Toni Dwiggins

  I looked. It was rough country down there. The walls of the wide amphitheater were greatly dissected, trenching the area with numerous side gorges. Finally I glimpsed the big sheep on a rocky ridge, all tawny hide and curving horns flashing in the sun. Down in one of the wrinkled canyons I caught flashes of blue and silver, most likely backpacks. Other than the hikers and the bighorn, it seemed we'd have the place to ourselves. This was not crowded country, unlike the heavily-touristed trails close to the South Rim.

  “Yes,” I answered my partner. “Let's go.”

  Our team moved off the rock ledge and headed for the trail that would take us down off the plateau and into the canyons below.

  We wore backpacks because we didn't know how much ground we'd have to cover on this field trip, if that would take us more than one day. We each carried two bottles of water. Even though we were heading into a region with streams big and small, you don't hike down into the Grand Canyon without carrying water. You just don't.

  We walked in silence.

  We were a team hobbled by mixed feelings. Walter and I had made a pact with Neely to let HGP film our investigation, a frame for the documentary. The pact had been sorely tested at the meeting in the Park headquarters conference room, in which we had, in one way or another, cast suspicion on Neely's cousin. Wes Hawthorne remained missing, increasing Neely's worry. So she was fueled by her own mission, on this trip, hoping to learn something—anything—that would cast the eye of FBI Special Agent David Quillen away from her cousin. Quillen's eye was roving, taking in Wes and Becca and Reid Lassen and his family, taking in the rafters, taking in Neely, indeed the entire HGP team—eyeing everybody but Walter and me, although I did not doubt that Quillen had done a thorough backgrounder on us.

  We had asked Pete Molina to join our team because the ranger knew the Shinumo Amphitheater, knew the backcountry and the trails and the shortcuts, and not least because Pete could commandeer a Search and Rescue chopper to ferry us from the Canyon's South Rim across and above the Colorado River to the North Rim, to the drop-off at a grassy clearing on the Powell Plateau, saving us one hell of a lot of time.

  Pete was wary of the HGP filmmakers—as he had been that first day on the beach, fearing they'd exploit the river tragedy. But Walter and I vouched for them. And Pete believed in us, or at least in our ability to follow the geology to help locate the missing rafter.

  We'd had no luck tracking the Tapeats to a river-level landing. And then Sam Pendleton's body, with the Muav chips in his pocket, had turned up at river mile one-twelve, just shy of the Shinumo Amphitheater. And then we'd studied the geo map and found that the Tonto Group rocks we were hunting cropped out in the Shinumo high above river level. So we were coming at the problem from above.

  We tramped across the brushy Ponderosa-pine forested mesa to the trailhead. Down below, I spotted Pete's SAR helicopter doing a grid search of the wrinkled canyons and ridges and valleys of the Shinumo.

  And then we stepped off the edge of the Powell Plateau and started our descent.

  We passed through the two-hundred-fifty-million-year-old Kaibab Limestone, through the older shaly Toroweap Formation, and then the still older Coconino Sandstone, dropping deeper and deeper into time, and I pictured the stacked rock layers of the geologic fireplace in the Bright Angel Lodge, and Reid Lassen's own version of the fireplace, and I thought of the stunning discovery I'd made comparing the two. I thought, you're too damn cocky, Reid.

  The trail led us down to the neck of land that connected Powell Plateau to the North Rim.

  From here, we plunged into a deep canyon.

  It was densely haired with sharp-twigged manzanita and spiky brush and treacherous with broken chunks of rock and I had time, while picking my cautious way, to do an eyeball identification of the wheat-colored chunks and call them Coconino.

  Pete was in front of me, picking his way as nimble-footed as a bighorn.

  I half-turned to check on Walter, who was managing his descent with the long-practiced skill of a field geologist, even while scanning the brush with a practiced eye to watch for snakes.

  Behind him, the HGP team came with a few curses.

  All of us picking our way because this tricky trail was the easiest route to access this mostly un-trailed neighborhood.

  We passed through slopes of the two-hundred-sixty-five-million-year-old reddish Hermit Shale, and then the shaly limestone and equally-red Supai Formation, twenty million years older than the Hermit. Dropping like stones through time.

  The Hermit and the Supai were layers four and five on the geologic fireplace—faithfully reproduced by Reid.

  The descent dropped us a thousand feet into a dry streambed called White Creek.

  I looked up, to the right, at the Powell Plateau that now hung like a sky island above us.

  We took a short break and then followed mountain-goat Pete up and down small ridges and back into the creek bed where water played hide and seek, and then we came to the three-hundred-thirty-million-year-old Redwall.

  The Redwall Limestone was a masquerader that showed a red face only on the surface, stained by the overyling reddish Supai that leached iron oxides down to turn the gray limestone a deep red.

  The Redwall was layer six in that masquerader Reid Lassen's fireplace. Still though, like the preceding five layers, faithfully reproduced.

  In the field, the Redwall was notorious, a massive cliff-former, a trail-stopper.

  And indeed the Redwall soon turned impassable and we were forced back up onto the Supai. As we skirted the deepening gorge of the Redwall below, I heard Neely calling to Edgar, “You getting any of this?”

  And I thought come on, let the man hike without shouldering a camera.

  I heard Edgar's reply, “Getting it.”

  The always-accommodating Edgar was even more obliging since that meeting with Quillen. I wondered if Neely had forgiven her faithful cameraman. I wondered if she'd forgive me.

  We came to the start of the Redwall descent, another steep plunge of a trail that would take us into the gorge, back down to White Creek. The going was again prickly with sharp-tipped bushes and sharp-edged Redwall debris as we switchbacked down toward the creek bed.

  The straps of my pack chafed and it seemed to get heavier and bulkier and I sweated and gulped from my water bottle, and the others looked equally burdened and hot and thirsty, even Ranger Molina.

  At last we hit bottom.

  The creek bed was bouldery and dry and the canyon was pinched by steep Redwall cliffs, but within a short while the canyon widened and we hit flowing water, and I gave silent thanks to the old fault line that bedded this creek.

  We stopped to filter water and refill our bottles, and then moved on downcanyon.

  The canyon continued to widen and a new layer took its place below the Redwall on the enclosing cliffs: Muav Limestone, five-hundred-thirty-million years old. As we descended, the creek bed expanded and showcased the next layer down: Bright Angel Shale, ten million years older than the Muav.

  Layers seven and eight on Reid's geologic fireplace—not faithfully represented.

  I grew a grim smile. Hey Reid, did you think I wouldn't notice? Did you think Walter wouldn't notice—your fellow geologist?

  Walter and I now trailed the others, eyeing the geology, and when we came to a site with lovely ledges of a mottled silvery Muav, Walter called to the others, “Here!”

  Everyone was happy enough to stop and drop packs and gulp water.

  The creek flowed fully here and the canyon was almost lush, with cottonwoods and grasses and bushes and even a few spiky deep-orange flowers that I called desert paintbrush. But I focused on the lovely naked rock. I got out my field kit and made a beeline for a ledge of Muav.

  Walter started on the Bright Angel Shale along the near bank of the creek. We wanted samples at hand to compare to the Bright Angel Shale carried by rafter Schrader—as Reid had acknowledged—if and when she was found.

  Neely spoke up. “Which one is P
endleton's kind of rock?”

  I turned to her. That would be my ledge. The chips found in Sam Pendleton's pocket were Muav Limestone but beyond that broad classification, they were a specifically mottled Muav. The deep chemical and mineral analysis Walter and I had done suggested that they originated somewhere in the vast Shinumo Amphitheater. Right here, maybe. Elsewhere, maybe. I set the dish of Pendleton's rocks on the ledge, for comparison.

  “This,” I answered Neely. “This is the Muav.”

  “That must be why it's named Muav Canyon,” Justin said, with a sly smile for Neely.

  She laughed. Looked as though she'd forgiven her journalist, for his role in the meeting with Quillen.

  And then she moved over to Walter. “How about it? Can we get you on-camera?”

  Walter had been kneeling to pick through the broken bits of reddish-green shale. He got to his feet and faced Neely. “I suppose I owe you that.”

  She said, “I suppose you do.”

  She arranged Justin and Walter with the sweep of Muav Canyon as background. Edgar connected the stubby microphone to the jack on the camera, and aimed at interviewer and interviewee.

  Ranger Molina, I took note, sat on a nearby boulder with his arms crossed.

  I turned back to my Muav, with its distinctive yellowish globular blotches of calcareous mudstone. Sampling. Eavesdropping.

  Neely said, “Roll camera.”

  Justin did a short intro—the incident, the bagged Tapeats found beneath the bow line, the bagged Muav carried by rafter Pendleton, the Bright Angel Shale presumably by rafter Schrader—to potentially be sourced here. And then the Mancos, carried by rafter Hembry, already sourced at Paradox Valley, the shark tooth adding color to the story.

  The mystery, what happened on the river?

  The truffle.

  And then Justin asked Walter, “How did your rock analysis bring you here?”

  Walter talked chemistry and mineral suites and inclusions and the geologic map and was well on his way to Forensic Geology 101, but Justin deftly interrupted:

  “I understand the geologic fireplace played a role.”

  I stopped chiseling the Muav. I turned to watch.

  Walter hesitated. We'd explained to the others, in the trip-planning meeting yesterday, laying out the evidence, the guesses. Now he was going to have to explain it on film. A betrayal of his old friend.

  Skirting off-limits territory, no need to mention the zombie apocalypse.

  Still, formally cutting Reid loose.

  He began. “Layers seven, eight, and nine. Muav Limestone, Bright Angel Shale, Tapeats Sandstone.”

  Justin said, “On the fireplace in trip leader Lassen's home, those layers differed from the original, correct?”

  “Correct. My partner took photos of the Lassen fireplace and we compared those to the original.”

  “And you found?”

  “Layers seven, eight, and nine—the Cambrian Tonto Group rocks—were thicker on the Lassen fireplace.”

  “Thicker than....?”

  “The Tonto rock layers are thinner in the neighborhood of the Bright Angel Trail—as represented on the fireplace at the Bright Angel Lodge.”

  “That was significant?”

  “That helped us narrow the target neighborhood.” Walter circled a hand—the Shinumo.

  Justin brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, tucking it into the flipped-up front of his standing-wave hairdo. As if gathering his thoughts. Letting the moment run. “But why did Lassen make that mistake? He's a geologist, like you.”

  “No mistake,” Walter said. “He built a model.”

  “Of?”

  “Of this general neighborhood. The Tonto rock layers are thicker here. As his layers seven and eight and nine represent.”

  “Why here?”

  “He's a showman. Presumably, there is something here of interest to him.”

  “Do you care to speculate what it is?”

  Walter said, “I have no earthly idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WE PACKED UP AND CONTINUED downcanyon.

  The water in the creek was now flowing regularly and in places we had to boulder-hop and wade from one bank to the other, and back again. We'd come prepared—we wore low boots with mesh uppers and grippy lugged rubber soles that had good traction on dry rock and in wet streambeds. Where the water ran quickly, we used our collapsible hiking poles for balance.

  Here and there, rocky ledges created small waterfalls, and we climbed above the creek bed to bypass the pour-offs.

  We stopped to filter more water and take off our hats and wet our bandanas in the cool creek and have a snack of dried apricots and cheese and crackers and foil-packeted tuna salad, and I thought of the banquet Neely had laid out for us on that cliff in Paradox Valley, the breaking of bread, the binding of the team.

  Now, we ate in silence. Weary.

  And then Neely joined me on my rock ledge. She held a multi-tool knife. She said, “Let me fix that for you.”

  She was looking at my hair, at the spiky uneven patch where her cousin had knifed me free from the barbwire. I hadn't had time since to get a proper haircut. She opened one of her multi-tools, a pair of scissors, and took a small comb from her shirt pocket. I looked at her short black curls, stylishly disheveled, and her green eyes steady on me and I accepted what was offered. She moved into position behind me and snipped and combed, and I watched the prunings fall to the silvery Muav stone, my brown hair darkened to basalt by sweat and trail dust.

  “I don't have a mirror,” she said, when she'd finished, “but take my word, it's an improvement.”

  I said, “Thank you for that.”

  “We're good now.”

  I smiled.

  She added, “But you're wrong about Wes.”

  WE MOVED ON DOWNCANYON, sampling further, a team now patched together by trail food and conciliations.

  All of us united. Do the job. Find the site.

  Ahead, by my geologic map, lay the Tapeats.

  Did Reid lead the rafters hiking up here, into the Shinumo Amphitheater, to collect some Tonto Group rocks? Because the Muav and the Bright Angel and the Tapeats, in this section of the Canyon, did not occur at river level. And if so, who had the Tapeats baggie in hand when they returned to the raft, and how did it end up underneath the tangled bow line?

  What happened on the river?

  Ranger Molina said, “The gorge is coming up. There will be water there.”

  The creek was dry now, but I had faith in Pete.

  Indeed, as the creek bed descended, water reappeared and within a few yards we came to the head of the Tapeats narrows.

  We stopped. Pete and Justin and Neely filtered water and refilled bottles. Edgar filmed, as Walter and I moved to sample the ledgy Tapeats.

  The rock was a coarse sandstone grading to a pebbly grit, with interwoven beds of a softer shale. Erosion had eaten back the softer material, creating long alcoves overhung by shelves of harder sandstone. The layering made me think of sheets of pastry, with filling in between. The sandstone was chocolate-brown.

  I put on my safety glasses and chiseled out a few chunks, while Walter gathered fragments from the base of the cliff.

  “Is it a match?” Neely asked.

  Similar, under my hand lens, to the chips from the baggie on the ghost raft. But not as rich in feldspar. “Similar,” I answered. We'd want more.

  Walter agreed.

  We moved on, further into Tapeats Gorge.

  The chasm deepened and the walls narrowed and we soon came to a slot that held a significant pour-off. We followed a short bypass, and then dropped back into the gorge. Before continuing we paused to gawk at a giant chockstone caught in the top of the slot. Some past flood had brought this boulder down White Creek, until it got wedged between the tight walls of the narrowing chasm. There was no escape down here in the gorge, should a flood come. But Pete had scrutinized the weather apps and satellite images before our trip and would not have a
llowed us in here otherwise.

  The slot narrowed and we had to go single-file and I took the lead, eyeballing the Tapeats, and as we plunged deeper into the sinuous chocolate-rock slot I found myself looking into alcoves and beneath overhangs. Looking for evidence that rafter Schrader had come this way. Looking, I realized, for a body.

  Looking, more to the point, at the Tapeats. I halted the group, to sample again. I put my hand lens to the rock. More similar than the previous spot, to the baggie chips, richer in feldspar. But not rich enough.

  Edgar edged around me, saying, “Excuse me, I'm sorry, can I just ...” and he hurried on ahead.

  Justin, further back, said, “He's claustrophobic.”

  Ahhh. Brave man, downclimbing into this chasm. And now he was focused on keeping himself together, and I was impressed that Neely hadn't talked footage in here. I understood why Edgar thought so highly of her. I sure understood the grip of claustrophobia. I wasn't wild about enclosed spaces, myself. Long as I could see some sky, I was good.

  I glanced up at the sliver of blue framed by the enclosing cliffs.

  Good enough.

  We moved on, navigating around boulders and skirting the flowing creek.

  At last the walls began to widen, and up ahead Edgar slowed a bit.

  According to my geologic map, further along this trail down to the Colorado River, we would not encounter any more Tonto rocks. So when we came to a rocky draw that cut up onto a ridge, we climbed up to take in the lay of the land.

  From here we had a view down to the junction where White Creek met another bigger creek coming in from the east. This bigger creek—Shinumo Creek—captured White and gave its name to the merged waterways. Shinumo Creek was the superstar of all the trickles and streams and creeks in this deeply wrinkled amphitheater, a high-flow waterway that began at a spring way up in the Kaibab and flowed twelve miles down to the Colorado, one of its few perennial tributaries.

  Edgar had his camera out again, already filming the superstar.

  And then he said, “What's that?”

  “What?” I asked. “Where?”

  “Almost where the creeks meet,” he said, peering through his lens. “Look for the orange.”