View photo courtesy Bonnie Gallagher The author paddles a small waterfall in Havasu Canyon.

Taking the route less traveled:

'You guys hike. I'll kayak these waterfalls.'

View reporter Mike Griffin recently returned from a 21-day river trip through Grand Canyon. This is the second in a three-part series about the experience.

I'm told that hiking up Havasu Creek is beautiful.

I wouldn't really know; I only made it a quarter-mile.

Everybody on my Grand Canyon expedition was hiking up this red-rock side canyon, enjoying the geology and the turquoise water. It was going to be fun. But I sat here alone on a rock.

I was beginning to discover something about myself.

Fifteen minutes into the hike, I told everybody, "You guys have a nice hike. I'm running waterfalls."

Now, I like hiking.

And I really liked everybody in the group, and would have enjoyed heading up-canyon with them. But it turns out, at my core, I am a kayaker.

As I look back on three weeks in the Grand Canyon, I think of amazing scenery, of relaxation, of fantastic camaraderie with a great group of people.

But my best memories - the things that really make me glow - all happened in the seat of my kayak.

On this day, our 13th in the canyon, we paddled our four rafts, the open canoe and my kayak into the mouth of Havasu Canyon and tied off. The group began hiking over a ride and would soon return to creek level a short ways upstream and continue hiking up the canyon.

I decided to paddle up the creek and meet them upstream. This entailed some portaging, as I would come to the bottom of a rocky little rapid and have to get out and carry my boat up the bank before launching again.

But as I portaged upstream past these rapids, I couldn't help looking.

Yes, they were rocky and shallow and steep. But there just might be enough water ...

Then I saw it. Perhaps three or four drops upstream from the creek's confluence with the mighty Colorado River, there was a drop. A special little drop.

The creek was pinched by a big boulder into a narrow turquoise ribbon, maybe four feet wide, that plunged about 10 feet straight down into a pool.

It was beautiful.

The water in Havasu Canyon is a stunning turquoise. The rock that surrounds it is a beautiful red. That little ribbon is just wide enough for a kayak.

The water is warm. The pool at the bottom looked deep.

And I knew how I was to spend my day.

Some of our group came hiking by, and I bid them farewell. Having paddled upstream without most of my gear, I had to return to the boats at the mouth of the canyon.

I can't explain the hurry, but I ran back down the trail to the rafts, where I had left my helmet. I found Bonnie there - she was straggling a little and would have to catch up with the other hikers.

I did what came naturally: I handed her my camera and asked her if she would photograph me running a waterfall.

She agreed, and I said I'd meet her up there.

View photo/Mike Griffin Waterfalls, like this one in Deer Creek, abound in the side canyons along the Colorado River in Grand Canyon National Park.

I sprinted up the trail, knowing I wouldn't have much time before Bonnie would want to hurry along to catch up to the other hikers.

I crawled out onto the boulder and inspected the ribbon falls. Yep; just wide enough for my kayak.

I stared at the landing zone. It appeared to be deep enough. The water roiled, but there wasn't enough flow to create a strong recirculation. I didn't think I would get stuck in the backwash.

It was possible, I supposed, that there could be some awkward rocks hiding in the white boil that could rudely greet me upon landing - but I didn't think so.

If I tugged my paddle stroke on the lip of the falls too hard one way or the other, I would probably tear my face off on the rock sides of the drop on my way down.

But I didn't think that would happen.

No; It looked like it would be good, clean fun.

Of course, I had never run any kind of waterfall before; not really. This would be a 10-foot free-fall.

The degree of difficulty shouldn't be all that high, I thought, but having never done it, I really didn't know.

But what I did know, somehow with absolute certainty, was that this is how I was meant to spend my day.

Bonnie arrived and got into position, and I headed upstream to where I had left my kayak.

I got in and paddled and bounced my way down a couple of small rapids, and then I eddied out in the pool above the falls.

With great excitement and a little bit of apprehension, I peeled away from the bank, turned downstream and approached the lip.

I took a little flurry of paddle strokes, culminating in one last, light tug with my left blade. As my bow nosed downward and I began to drop, I had to raise my paddle into an awkward position to keep from smashing it into the rock on either side.

I rushed downward, achieving some semblance of free-fall as the warm water bubbled in around me.

The paddle blade slipped from my left hand just before my boat dove into the boiling pool at the bottom.

Ah, this would be the moment of truth.

Would my boat knife softly through clean, aerated water, or would it smash onto the rock I didn't see and split wide open - or worse, lodge vertically and pin me underwater?

It was fluffy. Warm. Soft. Peaceful.

Upside down, under water, I relocated the left end of my paddle and gripped it, and rolled my boat back upright.

I beamed at Bonnie on the rocks above me.

It wasn't that hard. And I didn't do it very well. But it was awfully fun.

Bonnie headed upstream to catch up with the other hikers, but I was staying put.

There were more drops just upstream and downstream of the waterfall, and I had work to do.

Scouting. Wood removal. More scouting.

I couldn't paddle while everybody was gone and I was all alone in the canyon. That's just too unsafe, because if anything went wrong, there would be nobody to help me.

So I spent two hours alone with the creek, looking at the rapids and deciding which ones might work.

After wading back and forth across the stream several times and pulling a lodged tree branch out of the chute of one drop, I came to the conclusion that the series of drops I had already run were the only ones that were safe enough and worth the effort.

So I sat down on a boulder.

I had time.

I looked around at the canyon walls. I watched birds circle overhead. I listened to distant thunder and felt the smatter of a couple of stray rain drops that leaked from the leaden sky.

I climbed back out onto the boulder that pinched the river into my beautiful little ribbon of a waterfall. I stared again at the pool, wondering if it was totally clean or if there were some hidden rocks that I had just been lucky to miss on my first descent.

I wondered how many other people in the world had ever kayaked this tiny little drop. Five? Or five hundred? More?

I returned to my rock, and reclined.

I was alone - but not lonely.

Finally, members of the group started filtering back down the trail, and I started asking those with cameras to park near the waterfall.

I do enjoy putting on a show.

When most of the group was back and several cameras were trained on the waterfall, I got back into my boat once more.

I ran through the lead-in rapids and once again eddied out above the falls.

I looked skyward; a little prayer, not asking for safe deliverance but instead thanking God for the opportunity to do what I love.

I turned, paddled to the lip, launched off it, and kept my paddle under control this time.

I fell. Free-fall. Only for a second or so, but it was free-fall. And it felt good.

I plunged into the boil at the bottom, and again it was fluffy.

I disappeared under the water, but this time with both hands on my paddle, I was able to keep the boat upright, and I resurfaced without having to roll.

I grinned up at my friends on the rock, and they grinned back.

I know some of them thought me a little strange, and I suppose I am.

I had passed up a two-hour hike for three minutes in my kayak.

Yes, I had missed the hike.

But I didn't feel like I had missed out.

We were 12-and-a-half days into 21 days of water and canyon and hiking and camaraderie, and I had found one more way to experience it in the best way I know how - from the seat of my kayak.

I was discovering something about my soul. Strange as it may seem, and for better or for worse, the seat of a small, plastic kayak is where I am happiest.

I knew before the trip that kayaking is one of my strongest passions, but my Grand Canyon journey helped me elaborate my understanding. In this place where so much can be found and where, for many, the whitewater is almost an afterthought - all I wanted to do was paddle. And anything I could do in my boat, I did - from skipping hikes in order to run waterfalls, to intentionally running through the largest waves and holes in the canyon's biggest rapids. I just wanted to be in my boat.

It's a stunning journey, going from the top of Grand Canyon to Lake Mead by river.

In last week's column, I talked about the amazing size and beauty of the water in the larger rapids that we encountered at the end of the first week.

Our second week started with Crystal Rapid - rated a 9 on Grand Canyon's 1-to-10 scale.

There was a giant hole in the top-center, and downstream there were giant holes on the left and the right. The trick was to dodge the top-center hole and then get back to the center to get between the bottom two.

While scouting from the bank, I tossed around the idea of going right through the top hole - because it would up the excitement level, and set me up to go right between the bottom holes.

One of our most experienced oarsmen said there was no way I could paddle through it and stay upright, and I agreed.

But when I got in my boat and paddled around the corner and the rapid appeared in front of me, there was no doubt in my mind: I would go right through it.

My tiny kayak disappeared under the thundering, 15-foot-high pile of whitewater, and I shot out the back of it, 10 feet downstream, and yelled and cheered my way through the rest of the rapid.

The week ended with Lava Falls - one of the more famous rapids in the world.

Our oarsmen did an excellent job, keeping all four of our 18-foot rafts upright as they dodged the giant hole and roared over the enormous waves.

Bonnie, our open canoeist, made it almost all the way through the rapid before being swamped and flipped. I raced to her side and, working together, we had her back in her boat and safely in an eddy in about 20 seconds.

And me? My run of Lava went so clean and easy that I had to get out, carry my boat back upstream and run it again to get my money's worth. I got pummeled on the second run, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

And in between the two rapids was the Havasu waterfall, and Thunder River.

Of all of the things I experienced while not in my kayak, Thunder River was the most meaningful.

Tricia, Dave N., Dave B. and I decided to undertake the grueling, seven-mile loop while Lew, Bonnie, Allison and Mike T. took the boats downstream to meet us.

At River Mile 134 on Day 11, the four of us entered the mouth of Tapeats Creek, switch-backed high over a ridge and then dropped back into the side canyon. Sweltering, baked desert surrounded us for as far as my mind could imagine, but the little creek carved a green oasis through the burnt-red furnace.

We turned at Tapeats' confluence with Thunder River and climbed up-canyon to the small river's source.

Here, crystal-clear water explodes from the side of a canyon wall, springing out of nowhere. It tumbles down a huge, cascading waterfall and recollects itself at the bottom to form the start of the river.

Leaving the blazing heat and walking to stand in the cold mist at the bottom of the falls was spiritual for me; almost Biblical. It was as if the blood of life was magically emerging from the burning desert.

We filtered water to refill our bottles, and we drank our fill. Water never tasted so good, so cold and so pure. If I could do it over again, I would have drank straight from the falls without filtering. (This is generally ill-advised anywhere near the Grand Canyon, but the water at Thunder River Springs is reputed to be quite clean.)

Leaving the falls, we traversed a couple of miles across a high, blazingly hot and dry valley until we reached Deer Creek Springs, and we followed it downstream toward the main river.

Meeting the rest of our group, who had beached the boats at the mouth of Deer Creek and hiked up, we used a rope to climb down into the slot canyon known as Deer Creek Narrows. We hiked through the water, enjoying being surrounded by beautifully sculpted rock chambers, before climbing back out and returning to the Colorado River.

In a few days, we would reach Diamond Creek and drop off Mike T. on Day 16. Diamond Creek is where most private Grand Canyon trips end, and Mike had to get out here to return to work.

The rest of us, however, were set to continue another 70 miles downstream, where we would be entering a wider world where the canyon walls retreated and coyotes and biting flies made their presence felt.

It would prove to be a very different experience than the first two thirds of our trip, but was in its own right a wonderful way to wrap up our adventure.

View reporter Mike Griffin is an avid whitewater kayaker, and regularly shares his adventures with readers. He can be reached by email at mgriffin@pueblowestview.com.

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