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Report from the Frontier:
Toroweap & The Lava Falls Route
by Nickolay Todorov
As the 80’s Toyota 4X4 hydroplaned sideways across the sea of mud,
Mark and I giggled stupidly. We had lost control over the vehicle
and waited for destiny’s mercy. How things had changed! Only a few
seconds before we had been screaming in ecstasy as we barged at
70mph through the flooded “Primitive Road” as the sign half a mile
back had called it. “Proceed at your own risk,” it had added.
Outlined behind us against the vermillion cliffs of Zion was
Colorado City, the remote polygamist town of excommunicated
Mormons and a frequent host to FBI raids. If the truck toppled
over, we would have to trudge back and search for help in one of
those massive dark houses we had just passed, like unsuspecting
characters in a horror movie.
Luckily, the stars had aligned in the right way. The truck lost
momentum before it climbed over the shoulder and hit dry dirt. We
screamed obscenities, laughed and gave each other hi-fives. Then
we jumped into the mud, locked the hubs and proceeded, with the
comforting growl of the four-wheel drive, across seventy miles of
mud, dirt and rocks towards Toroweap, perched on the northern rim
of the Grand Canyon.
The Toroweap (or Tuweep, depending on the Native American dialect)
outlook is one of the most remote spots in one of the most remote
parts of the country. The Arizona strip, the last mapped area in
the lower 48, stretches along the northern edge of the Grand
Canyon, from Lake Mead on the West to Glen Canyon on the East.
Towards the middle, removed by seventy miles from the nearest
maintained road, stands the Toroweap outlook, the most
awe-inspiring vantage point of the Grand Canyon with a
head-spinning three-thousand-foot drop to the Colorado river. The
spot, equipped with a small camping site, is visited by less than
1,000 people per year. Compare this with the five million at Grand
Canyon Village and the half-million at North Rim.
As we came within several miles of the road’s end, we started to
roll over some seriously rough terrain. A giant full moon rose to
the east. We established camp at the deserted site and set out on
foot to find the rim. Thank God for the moon and our guiding stars
for keeping us from walking right over the edge: a massive flat
boulder formed the ledge on which we crawled and peeked into a
kilometer of black abyss. Down there, flickering like a firefly,
was the bonfire of rafters resting on the banks of the Colorado.
Over the next two days, this would be the only sign of life we
would encounter.
March nights in a tent in the high desert are glacial. Thick gusts
of wind threatened to blow us over while we slept. You could hear
them coming from miles away in five-minute intervals throughout
the night. They would push the tent to one side and vanish,
leaving only silence and the smell of dust. I was grateful when
the sun arrived, even though at 7am the scale barely touched
forty.
The reason we had chosen to come at this chilly time of the year
was our next destination: a descent to the Colorado so precarious
that it is not even considered a trail. The Lava Falls Route, a
55% grade, dirt-and-gravel slide is the steepest and fastest
plunge from the Grand Canyon rim to the Colorado river. At the
bottom await a series of intense river rapids called Lava Falls.
In the summer, the temperatures can hit 120 degrees, in the winter
snow blocks the way, and in the fall the lightning and flashfloods
threaten constantly. The best time to attempt this route,
therefore, is from late March to early May.
From the campsite, we drove to the trailhead on a nasty road; when
it rains, the road gets flooded and even a 4X4 cannot make it
through. The Ranger’s log warned matter-of-factly: “Lava Falls
Route is not for the faint of heart. Be fully prepared for
self-rescue.” There were sporadic entries of people who had gone
down, about one or two per week.
We dove into the Canyon nervous because of provisions. The steep
course required a balance between a sufficient amount of water and
food and the light weight we needed to keep. It was a gamble
either way. For similar weight considerations, we opted not to
take the tent.
Our path was indicated by cairns piled at every twenty feet. We
slid over crushed volcanic rock at a precipitous angle. My feet
could not find steady surface, so I jogged in the steeper parts,
protecting my ankles from a potential sprain or, God forbid,
break; a broken ankle here could mean death. Around us,
low-growing cacti hid among the boulders. At one point, Mark
slipped and a two-inch thorn impaled his hand. He was in pain but
there was nothing we could do. We trudged down for a couple of
hours, jogging and sliding, arms stretched like surfers, until we
rounded a bend and the Colorado appeared below. It was brown and
wide; even from far up we could recognize its powerful current.
Behind us, the canyon walls rose vertical and impenetrable. Going
back seemed a fool’s dream but I put off such thoughts. My thighs
already pulsated from the zealous workout I had forced them into.
As we continued, the view of the river grew and the distant roar
of the Lava Falls, still invisible downstream, reached us. We hit
a spot where the canyon wall had broken off and collapsed towards
the river. The cairns disappeared and we assumed that the route
was unmarked from here on. We slid down the volcanic dirt to a
drop that appeared to be a dead end. Retreating would demand an
inhuman effort; there could be a possible way down if we threaded
across a precarious ledge. A hundred feet lower we hit the real
dead end. Under us were two hundred feet of jagged rock before the
final descent to the river.
My heart skipped. We had no way to go but to crawl back up
hundreds of feet, in the soft dirt we had used to slide down so
easily. Resting now would be luxury, every lost second took us
away from reaching the river. We bit the bullet and began the
maneuver. My feet could not get a hold and my heart raced from the
massive pressure. Several times, I started to slide back and only
the desperate grasp of a jutting rock saved me from flying over
the edge. As I dug heels into the dirt for a foothold, my heart
threatened to explode and a black curtain draped my eyes. My lungs
squeezed air from nothing. I barely remember dragging my body over
a bolder at the top of the section and dropping lifeless on the
ground. All said and done, the detour had robbed us of a precious
hour.
We gathered our breath and persisted on down toward the river. But
will and desire had no say anymore. My legs refused to hold me,
bending at the knees with every step. Thigh muscles had turned to
mush. It was almost three o’clock, and the sun would set at six
thirty.
“We already lost the route in broad daylight,” Mark said.
“Climbing back at night is suicide.”
The Colorado flowed barely a few hundred feet below, eternal and
massive and smelling of wet earth. I wanted to reach it, to dip my
feet in it and wave at startled rafters. The arrogance that we
could make it in a day betrayed us, I thought.
We clambered up when a thick cloud parked halfway over the sun.
The light broke on the other side and hit the opposite wall of the
canyon, setting the red rock on fire. There wasn’t a sign of a
living being except for the vultures above. The rush of the river
receded below us and an ageless silence settled in. Few souls had
laid eyes on this frontier land and we were among them; it was
this isolation we had craved. We filled our eyes and shook hands.
Then we fought on upward, step by torturous step, without a word.
© Nickolay Todorov
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About the Author
I was born in Bulgaria, the heart of the violent and
mystical Balkans. It took a small adjustment after I
arrived to New York City, but it was nothing compared
to the giant cultural shock when I transferred to LA
after six years in the high culture and cattle-jam of
Manhattan.
For a daytime job, I write and produce indie feature
films. My first one, “Sea of Dreams,” is coming to US
theatres in September. I recently started publishing
my short stories, and my travel writing now features
on adventure websites in the US, the UK, India and in
South America. Hopefully more good things crawl up on
the horizon. |
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