The gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with crags and angular projections on the walls…. Down in these grand gloomy depths we glide, ever listening, ever watching.

Grand, we’d agree, but not really gloomy. Glowing is the word. The afternoon sun is hidden by the narrow walls but indirect light, reflected and refracted by the water, by the pink granitic sills and dikes in the polished cliffs, by the blue lenses of the atmosphere, streams upon us from many angles, all radiant. However, unlike Powell and his men, we are fresh, well fed, well supplied, secure in our bulging life jackets, confident in our dories, too ignorant (except the boatmen) for fear.

Two miles below Hance we crash through the well-named Sockdolager Rapid (5–7), and two and a half miles later into and through Grapevine Rapid (6–7), both so named by Major Powell. Litton’s buoyant boats ride high on the waves but not high enough to escape the recoil of the descending 52º waters. Screams of delight, shock, astonishment ring through the canyon as we ride this undulating roller coaster. Unlike the sea, here on the river the water moves, the waves remain in place, waiting for us. Soaked and chilled, we bail out the boats and watch mysterious glenlike tributary canyons pass by on either side. Asbestos Canyon (remains of an old mine up there), Vishnu Creek, Lonetree Canyon, Clear Creek, Zoroaster Canyon, Cremation Creek (what happened there? no one in our party knows) and others. In the early afternoon we pull all seven boats ashore at Phantom Ranch.

Phantom Ranch, combination ranger station and tourist hostel, is the only outpost of civilization within the Canyon. From here broad and well-maintained foot and mule trails lead to both the North and South Rims. Also a telephone line. And a waterline, built at taxpayers’ expense, for the motels on the South Rim. There is even a clearing for helicopters. The two footbridges above the river are the only Colorado River crossings from Navajo Bridge to Hoover Dam.

Here we pause for an hour. Some of the passengers are departing us at this point, having contracted for only the first part of the voyage. Their places are taken by others who have hiked the trail down from South Rim. Loaded and ready. One by one the boats shove off, deeper into the inner gorge.

This time my wife and I sit in the bow of the leading dory. Our oarsman is young Rich Turner—musician, philosopher, ornithologist, schoolteacher, rock climber, high diver, veteran oarsman, one of Litton’s most experienced hands. Two other passengers are on board: Jane the cook and a newcomer, fifteen-year-old Jenny, a girl from Henderson, Kentucky. Active, athletic Jenny has never been on a river trip of any kind before. As we drift down the river, Rich plying the oars at a leisurely pace, she asks us if we don’t get bored sometimes with this effortless mode of travel. Sure we do, but none of us will admit it. We tell her about the birds and the interesting geological formations; the pleasant afternoons in the cool shade, with the sun setting on the high canyon walls; the contrast of the quiet beauty of the side canyons and grottoes with the violent crashing roar of the rapids at the mouth of each side canyon.