The Grand Canyon is one of Northern America's most breath-taking natural attractions, but it's physical challenges proved to be a crucial challenge for one recently disabled man .
WORDS: KAREN BOWERMAN
From the corner of our camp he shouts at me: "Karen do you have any paper towel?"
I'm on cooking duty, slicing red onions. I glance in his direction.
"Well? Have you?" He speaks aggressively; I sense frustration in his voice.
"The kitchen's run out," I reply, "but I have a pack of moist tissues in my dry bag. Will that do?"
He doesn't look up. He's too absorbed, bent right over. His kayak lies abandoned at his feet. "Er, shall I get you one?" I ask tentatively.
"Yeah," he says. "Just get it now. Anything to stem the blood."
HUFF
It's day four of our trip down the Grand Canyon and I haven't worked out the best way to deal with this fellow paddler yet. He's positioned awkwardly on a ledge of granite and at that moment loses his balance. He swears loudly and ferociously.
I approach to see a groundsheet festooned with needles; he grabs the tissue and adds pressure to his arm to take away the sting, to seal that day's toxins into his system so he can function with some degree of normality. He works methodically, but swears frequently. I can see why.
Sergeant Brandon Huff - Huff, as we ended up calling him - was blown up in Iraq. Aged 25, he's had two strokes, lost his left leg at the thigh and hasn't long come out of hospital. He doesn't bother with the niceties of prosthetics; he wears a jointed metal rod with a sandal on one end. The shoe's strapped round a foot moulded from yellow plastic.
His leg trips him up in the sand, refuses to flex as he leans over the bucket to rinse his lunch plate and makes mastering our makeshift foot pump near impossible, even when he throws his crutch aside. It weighs a ton too; I've carried it up the beach for him, wrapped in its black bin bag.
RAPIDS
As I clear away Huff's already at the water's edge, binding his stump in cling-film. Once in his kayak, the others give him a shove and he splashes in. Suddenly he's the same as the next man, slicing the water with his paddle, turning his kayak with ease. "Move it!" he shouts to the rest of us, still securing cool boxes to the rafts. "I'm bored." He gives a wry smile. He's ready, now, to tackle the river head on.
Minutes later we hit the first rapid of the afternoon. The red, vaulted walls of the canyon seem to be moving in on us. Suddenly the warm breeze disappears and there's a noticeable drop in temperature.
Huff throws himself into the torrent, paddling aggressively, challenging the river with the fearlessness I presume he had in Iraq. He's found himself a new desert and a new enemy. But this time he won't be the fall guy.
The waves crash into him from all directions. I lose sight of his kayak; there's a flash of orange then nothing but spray. I fear he's making little headway, but am mistaken. The next time I spot him he's already through, paddling idly in the calmer water, almost ridiculing the river for too easy a ride.
"What's it like then?" I ask from my raft as we catch up with him. Huff glances across, his forearms taut, his kayak stuffed with sponge wedges where his knee should be. He affords me just a second of his time. "Brilliant. I'm f***ing flying!" he shouts and speeds away.
RHYTHM OF THE RIVER
That evening it's Brandon's turn to cook. He balances behind a plastic table, looking aggressive and determined. His artificial leg stands against a tamarisk tree catching the twilight; he's given up on it now.
The former soldier battles to open four tins of tomatoes. He curses as one of them slips through his hands and lands with a thud in the sand. We continue chatting among ourselves; Brandon won't accept help and we've learnt not to offer any more.
As the days pass we fall into the rhythm of river life. On the water Brandon beats the best of us; on land he struggles, except at cards. We play late into the night; he wins nearly every game. We all adapt to a new world, one where there are no mobile phones, no cars, no TVs; nothing except the rumble of the water and the heat of the sun.
RIVER'S ROAR
Then suddenly we're at Lava Falls, the most feared rapid on the Colorado. It drops 37 feet and has a difficulty rating of nine - out of 10. This is the big one. Rocks rise out of the water then disappear. The river doesn't rumble, it roars.
We scramble over boulders and volcanic scree to view the rapid from above. I glance back to where we've left Huff below.
"What are you looking at me for?" he asks in his typical caustic fashion. "Do you expect me to hop to the top of that ledge? Imbecile."
"Yeah," I reply. "Why? Aren't you up to it?" This is how I deal with Huff now. I say it as it is, just as he does, and it's broken the ice. He raises an eyebrow; shoots me a smile.
HUFF THE UNTOUCHABLE
Lava lives up to its reputation. We flip a raft and watch as the current sucks it away. Brandon rolls over and over, six times, slapping the bottom of his boat for help. When he finally rights himself he's coughing violently, but within minutes he's as focused as before.
We learned later that Huff was kayaking the canyon for the first time. But there he was, day after day, fearless and out in front. It meant all I ever saw was the back of his lifejacket, where someone had scrawled, "Huff the Untouchable".
The river trip reminded the rest of us of his ability. He, of course, never questioned it.
WORDS: KAREN BOWERMAN
From the corner of our camp he shouts at me: "Karen do you have any paper towel?"
I'm on cooking duty, slicing red onions. I glance in his direction.
"Well? Have you?" He speaks aggressively; I sense frustration in his voice.
"The kitchen's run out," I reply, "but I have a pack of moist tissues in my dry bag. Will that do?"
He doesn't look up. He's too absorbed, bent right over. His kayak lies abandoned at his feet. "Er, shall I get you one?" I ask tentatively.
"Yeah," he says. "Just get it now. Anything to stem the blood."
HUFF
It's day four of our trip down the Grand Canyon and I haven't worked out the best way to deal with this fellow paddler yet. He's positioned awkwardly on a ledge of granite and at that moment loses his balance. He swears loudly and ferociously.
I approach to see a groundsheet festooned with needles; he grabs the tissue and adds pressure to his arm to take away the sting, to seal that day's toxins into his system so he can function with some degree of normality. He works methodically, but swears frequently. I can see why.
Sergeant Brandon Huff - Huff, as we ended up calling him - was blown up in Iraq. Aged 25, he's had two strokes, lost his left leg at the thigh and hasn't long come out of hospital. He doesn't bother with the niceties of prosthetics; he wears a jointed metal rod with a sandal on one end. The shoe's strapped round a foot moulded from yellow plastic.
His leg trips him up in the sand, refuses to flex as he leans over the bucket to rinse his lunch plate and makes mastering our makeshift foot pump near impossible, even when he throws his crutch aside. It weighs a ton too; I've carried it up the beach for him, wrapped in its black bin bag.
RAPIDS
As I clear away Huff's already at the water's edge, binding his stump in cling-film. Once in his kayak, the others give him a shove and he splashes in. Suddenly he's the same as the next man, slicing the water with his paddle, turning his kayak with ease. "Move it!" he shouts to the rest of us, still securing cool boxes to the rafts. "I'm bored." He gives a wry smile. He's ready, now, to tackle the river head on.
Minutes later we hit the first rapid of the afternoon. The red, vaulted walls of the canyon seem to be moving in on us. Suddenly the warm breeze disappears and there's a noticeable drop in temperature.
Huff throws himself into the torrent, paddling aggressively, challenging the river with the fearlessness I presume he had in Iraq. He's found himself a new desert and a new enemy. But this time he won't be the fall guy.
The waves crash into him from all directions. I lose sight of his kayak; there's a flash of orange then nothing but spray. I fear he's making little headway, but am mistaken. The next time I spot him he's already through, paddling idly in the calmer water, almost ridiculing the river for too easy a ride.
"What's it like then?" I ask from my raft as we catch up with him. Huff glances across, his forearms taut, his kayak stuffed with sponge wedges where his knee should be. He affords me just a second of his time. "Brilliant. I'm f***ing flying!" he shouts and speeds away.
RHYTHM OF THE RIVER
That evening it's Brandon's turn to cook. He balances behind a plastic table, looking aggressive and determined. His artificial leg stands against a tamarisk tree catching the twilight; he's given up on it now.
The former soldier battles to open four tins of tomatoes. He curses as one of them slips through his hands and lands with a thud in the sand. We continue chatting among ourselves; Brandon won't accept help and we've learnt not to offer any more.
As the days pass we fall into the rhythm of river life. On the water Brandon beats the best of us; on land he struggles, except at cards. We play late into the night; he wins nearly every game. We all adapt to a new world, one where there are no mobile phones, no cars, no TVs; nothing except the rumble of the water and the heat of the sun.
RIVER'S ROAR
Then suddenly we're at Lava Falls, the most feared rapid on the Colorado. It drops 37 feet and has a difficulty rating of nine - out of 10. This is the big one. Rocks rise out of the water then disappear. The river doesn't rumble, it roars.
We scramble over boulders and volcanic scree to view the rapid from above. I glance back to where we've left Huff below.
"What are you looking at me for?" he asks in his typical caustic fashion. "Do you expect me to hop to the top of that ledge? Imbecile."
"Yeah," I reply. "Why? Aren't you up to it?" This is how I deal with Huff now. I say it as it is, just as he does, and it's broken the ice. He raises an eyebrow; shoots me a smile.
HUFF THE UNTOUCHABLE
Lava lives up to its reputation. We flip a raft and watch as the current sucks it away. Brandon rolls over and over, six times, slapping the bottom of his boat for help. When he finally rights himself he's coughing violently, but within minutes he's as focused as before.
We learned later that Huff was kayaking the canyon for the first time. But there he was, day after day, fearless and out in front. It meant all I ever saw was the back of his lifejacket, where someone had scrawled, "Huff the Untouchable".
The river trip reminded the rest of us of his ability. He, of course, never questioned it.
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