Planning post here, whose plan I followed pretty much dead on.  Day one took me from Pearce Ferry, up Pearce Canyon, out the north fork of the south arm, and to a camp on the upper Sanup (where I found water, rain/snow puddles in sheltered slickrock).  Day two went up the western wall of Fort Garret Point, and across the Shivwits to Pine Ranch.  A number of stock tanks where dry, which was worrying, but the one at Pine was full and clear.  This night was clear and cold, low 20s to high teens.  Day three went cross country to the southern cirque of Dansill Canyon, straight down the wall and then the drainage, around some dodgy cliffs, down the old stock trail, down Andrus Canyon, to a camp at the confluence with Parashant.  This was a brutal day, which being paranoid and carrying 10 liters of water did not enhance.  Day four was down Parashant in a drizzle to the Colorado, at which point it was inflate and keep rolling, or pitch my small tarp and sit things out (a Houdini was my only shell, apart from the drysuit).  The sun came out late that afternoon, and I camped on a primo tiny beach across from Diamond Peak, where I collected liters of rainwater from polished bedrock pockets, and saw bighorns across the canyon in the morning.  Day five saw me paddle down to the mouth of Burnt Canyon; in hindsight I would have done well to stop early at Separation or thereabouts, as the upcanyon afternoon wind was fierce.  Paranoid about the wind, I got on the water by 0700 and paddled 20 miles in 5 hours to join the loop by noon.

This was a hard trip in just about every respect.  My pack was heavy, even without the necessity of big water carries, and the terrain was tough.  I trained reasonably well for this, yet it was clear by early afternoon on day one that this was not going to be the sort of backpacking trip where even a long evening and big sleep would provide for sustainable recovery, the rough, constant ups of Pearce Canyon necessitated I dig a hole that wasn’t going to get filled back in until I was back in civilization, and so it proved.  Waking up creaky at the Andrus/Parashant confluence my feet were not psyched for a further 5 miles of downhill cobbles, and more than pleased at the river to let me arms do the work for the rest of the trip.

Uncertainty ran riot in my head all trip; did I have enough water, where would I be able to find more, would the route out of Pearce go?  By night two this had magnified a bit, into less rationale concerns; would the slot at the bottom of Andrus, which I had read was doable without technical gear, actually prove workable (yes, but only just).  And of course, the looming prospect of Grand Canyon rapids, even fairly modest Grand Canyon rapids, which proved just as intimidatingly steep as expected, while being remarkably not technical.  All of that reminded me that, foremost, 15 years ago I enjoyed paddling and dabbled in it while finding any whitewater distastefully intimidating, and that the last decade plus of big solo wilderness trips will never obviate the fearof the unknown.  Thankfully, because that fear has and will always be rooted in uncertainty with myself, and loosing that completely would have grave consequences.  You’ll never stay yourself if you take you for granted; we are always in the process of becoming.

I would do this trip, or a variation of it, again.  The western canyon was utterly wild and beguiling.  I saw two big river trips, both in camp, and a bunch of helicopters from camp at Burnt Canyon, and that was it.  The lower granite gorge is actually bigger (wider, if not quite as deep) as the upper, and felt it, with unmistakable Grand Canyon scenery in entirely novel variations.  Dawn to dusk days paddling and watching the world unfold are just about my favorite thing these days, and the main reason I kept going into the headwind and clocked 35 miles on day five was that I was enjoying myself far to much to consider stopping.

As promised, floating into and through the remenants of Lake Mead proved fascinating.  I intentionally did no research on how many rapids I would see, where they were, what they might be like, or indeed when they would succumb to the lasting influence of the reservoir.  It was startling, therefore, to pass Separation Canyon and have seemingly most of the verve go out of the river, when the external circumstances for its sustainment (gradient and side canyons) endure.  Ellsworth Kolb’s vivid description of portaging the “half mile long” Lava Cliff rapid, scrambling on ice-glazed rocks the second week of January, is a stark contrast with the minute riffle of today.  Presumably Spencer Canyon requires just the right microburst and flood to clog that constriction back into rapidity.  I do regret, just a bit, that my feet were tired enough that I did no side hiking in this section.

Presumably after a wetter winter the water situation would be less dire, but I can’t ever imagine it being excellent.  There are a lot of thirsty sediments out there.  At the same time, the density of springs along the river in the final approach to the Grand Wash cliffs was fascinating, and something whose geology I am eager to investigate.  Today, almost two weeks out from the trip, my feet are just about all healed up, and my mind recovered far enough to start thinking about the next Grand Canyon trip.