By Michael Shapiro
“Are we running Lava tomorrow?” Nathan, a wiry and strong former collegiate soccer player, shouts to our campfire circle. “Because if we are,” he announces, putting down his beer, “I need to stop drinking right now!”
A few miles downstream is Lava Falls, the most intimidating rapids on the river, with a thundering 15-foot recirculating ledge hole and ferocious lateral waves that upend boats for kicks.
Our mood the next morning is serious, quiet. We tighten lines so if we flip we won’t lose our gear. Without a word we start stretching; we want to be limber, ready in case we get tossed into the frothy madness.
As we row downriver, layers of reddish basalt give way to black volcanic rock; the river’s descent gets steeper, the current faster.
We hear the rapids’ roar a mile upstream. …
The raft hits the first wave hard and straight. We break through that first crucible and power through the V of the second wave. Several 8-foot-high waves curl over our boat; then we hit a wall of whitewater as the bow rises.
The Black Pearl hesitates, suspended diagonally above the Colorado. For a moment, time stops. It’s eerily silent. Then the raft lands bottom-side-down; the torrential current powers it through the final drops.
We pull over at Tequila Beach and pass bottles around. A group that had two flips is there, re-rigging their boats. We borrow their Hula Hoops and whirl as ecstatically as dervishes.
