RAFTING THE COLORADO
BANG! The sound was explosive, like a gunshot. I woke from a deep sleep and looked around, frightened. Nothing, except bodies curled up in sleeping bags around our campsite on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. Bang! On a ledge just six feet above me, two bighorn rams collided head-on, butting horns during the rut. I reached for my camera, but the movement startled them, and they darted away.
I looked up at the billion-year-old red cliff walls of the canyon rising thousands of feet into the sky. It was first light, and the cliffs were blanketed in pink and lavender. By noon, they’d turn plum and russet, and in late afternoon, a vermilion curtain would form on the walls. When the sun dipped, they glowed burnished copper, and at night in the moonlight, they turned silver. Here on the river, it was warm enough not to need a tent, and I would lie awake for hours mesmerized by the universe of stars sparkling like cluster bombs.
Were the bighorns back? No, it was the food locker slamming shut as a guide prepared breakfast. At the edge of the river, three large yellow rubber rafts and a wooden supply boat were tied up to the tamarisk trees.
