“Oh, thank goodness,” I muttered when the sun finally decided to emerge. My fingers were numb from braiding grass into ropes in the chilly morning air. The December temperatures in the Grand Canyon were not lending themselves well to fine motor skills. I was focused, if floundering, as I tried to keep up production. Ideal conditions or not, Courtney and I had a job to do: make rope.
Why did Courtney and I need to make rope out of grass at 9:45 in the morning? We needed a way to attach outriggers to the small wooden canoe Aaron was carving. Why was Aaron carving a canoe? Because we were maximizing our layover day.
When a trip agenda allows for it, treating yourself to a zero-mile day can be a sweet addition. A layover day can be lavish: no packing, no rowing, no timeline to keep. Or you can pack them full of activities: competitive beach games, river Olympics, exploratory adventures. Layover days aren’t always possible—they are a bit of a luxury. But if you can swing it, it’s well worth it.
Our trip leader was a fanatic for layover days. North Canyon was where we spent our first, at mile 20.5. We passed the time with a festive (if competitive) White Elephant gift exchange and side canyon exploration. Our second layover day, at Eminence, was all about vertical suffering. We spent the morning hiking—some even going so far as the canyon’s rim—and filled the afternoon with extreme croquet. Now, only eight days and 61.5 miles into our 30-day sojourn, we were taking our third.
On this particular layover day, our group decided to host a regatta. Camped at Above LCR, we set the day aside to build boats and race them down the famous Little Colorado River.
“Only natural materials,” Kyle announced as he walked around the chair circle with a hat full of numbers.
“You can use tools you brought with you, though,” Claire added.
“Four teams of four,” Kyle continued. “You have two hours. And your time starts now.”
The energy and excitement was palpable as the last number was drawn. Barely waiting for Kyle’s final directive, people flashed their numbers at each other across the circle. Whispers began before the teams had fully assembled. Quickly, teams disappeared to different corners of camp, careful not to be overheard by the competition.
The beach was a titter all morning as the teams brainstormed furiously. Some were combing the cliffs above camp for materials. Others were hunched over a task working with unbreakable focus. Everywhere you looked people were solving wholly inconsequential problems like an ungraded group project. Does anyone know how to make cordage? Any ideas on how to attach this mast to the hull? Does the sail make it too top heavy? How can we add weight to the base? Does anyone have a screwdriver? How do we make one?
My team set up shop in the chair circle. We brainstormed design ideas, listing the tools we had and materials we wanted to source from around camp. Behind us, the bushes rustled wildly. We watched a mass of willows sway until Erik emerged, breathless. He joined his team who were gathered around a five-gallon bucket. All of them were staring down, arms crossed, watching the bucket. I later learned they were soaking willow twigs, which they bent and bound for their boat design.
Another team was on the sandbar. They huddled in a tight circle, protecting their design from outside viewing. They couldn’t hide the obvious sound of sawing wood, though. Meanwhile, the fourth team had completely disappeared from view.
My team ended up finding a piece of driftwood that Aaron whittled into a canoe shape. We supported our canoe with two outriggers in a classic trimaran style. We iterated several different types of masts and played with various methods of attachment. Matt retrieved his felting kit, bent on adding some aesthetic value to our boat. “Wool is natural,” he reasoned.
“Not native, though,” Courtney countered. We decided to chance it. Matt felted a rising sun and a moon onto a flag. We attached it to our boat’s mast and named our rig Sol y Luna.
Once our designs had been finalized, we ferried across the river, careful to protect our crafts. After some ogling of the iconic confluence, we moseyed upriver to scout our course. Some debate ensued, but we settled on a starting line at the top of a big drop which was sure to weed out the poorly designed boats. At the obligatory pre-race media circuit, each boat was introduced by its name and each designer spoke to the press.
“Perfectly engineered,” Kyle said of his team’s collection of wood cookies, tenuously attached with pieces of willow stem. “Built for a single race,” Adam added. The Soaked, as they called it, incorporated few tenets of traditional boat design.
Row, Cat, Bow, Chan (named by Rosie, Kat, Beau, and Chan) was a classic catamaran, complete with a woven sail and some wildflower flair.
Courtney boasted about our trimaran: “Meticulously crafted. A modern engineering marvel.” My two cents: “Elegant, balanced… art.”
The Exxon Valdez (aka The Deez), named in honor of one member’s Waterworld obsession, boasted a beautiful and functional design. With two engineers on their team, The Deez had two sleek pontoons made of the very same willow twigs they were soaking earlier. They banded together the twigs and then tied them end-to-end to create tension and rigidity.
We established a single rule: if your boat gets stuck, you must count to 10. If your boat remains stuck, your team can make one intervention. With that, it was off to the races.
“It’s chaos as teams try to handle the pre-race anxiety,” Matt wrote from the press box. My heart rate was genuinely elevated when the boats began their descent. All sixteen of us started to chase; we ran along the bank, screaming and cheering. “Do we even have a finish line?” I shouted as I stumbled along the shore, trying not to trip. No one responded—there was too much action.
Row, Cat, Bow, Chan sent the right line and immediately disintegrated. Bits of their boat started to float away in every direction. The main section was swirling in an eddy. “Pieces everywhere!” Matt noted. They counted to 10.
Meanwhile, Sol y Luna hit a huge lateral and capsized. I wailed in melodramatic despair. Turns out, she actually floated much faster upside down. She caught a swift current and hurtled towards the lead boats before getting maytagged. Unfortunately, she was spit out right-side up. We crossed our fingers for another mast-to-keel reversal.
Capturing the swift water down the left channel, The Exxon Valdez and The Soaked were neck and neck. Before long, a clear winner emerged: the Exxon Valdez. We collectively whooped, groaned, and celebrated. Then, we did it all again.
Heat two was just as thrilling.
This layover day activity was so fun because it was rich in teamwork and goofiness. We started with nothing—only an idea. An idea, and a fair number of constraints. As paradoxical as it seems, the constraints bred creativity. We had very few materials and even fewer tools. We had a time limit and a challenge, and the result was wonderful. Each boat design was wildly different and encapsulated the personalities of the builders. We experienced a singular focus and drive to succeed at this self-imposed, no-stakes task.
That’s why I love river trips, too. They’re more than just a float trip. There’s inherent teamwork, and a need to be creative. Constrained by daylight, skill, and your surroundings, there are ample possibilities for exploration and problem solving. It’s about turning those constraints into catalysts.
Sure, sometimes your schedule doesn’t allow for a layover day. Or maybe it’s a long expedition and you just need a day to do some laundry and organize your sideboxes. Often, though, the river is where time abounds. And it’s best to capitalize. You can schedule a specific activity beforehand, or come up with a unique challenge when you arrive at camp and just use what’s around. You can come with a dry bag full of supplies, or you can come with no plan at all. If there’s one thing I learned from our unimaginable 11 layovers in 30 days, it’s this: there’s no wrong way to do it.
Just make the most of it.