Fifteen years ago a group of people invited me to join them on a river trip down the San Juan River of southeastern Utah. It seemed like a fine way to spend a few days, so I accepted. I had done a bit of floating before, but only on short stretches of rivers. A little stretch of the American River near Sacramento. A couple of hours on Alpine Canyon near Jackson, Wyo. Day trips.
This trip was to be six days, five nights, a total of about 65 miles. There is a small handful of rapids on this stretch, but by and large this is a simple, peaceful float through some heartbreakingly spectacular canyon country.
Most of the folks on the trip were longtime river rats, so the rigging and loading of the boats went quickly, with a minimum of effort on my part. I stood to one side, being helpful by staying out of the way. I'm good at that. Soon it was time to take to the water. I was assigned a spot in the front of one of the oar-rigs, where I could cause no problems. The boatmen pulled the rafts into the quick, brown current and we were off.
Over the course of the trip I easily picked up the rhythms of the river. I learned to loaf when the chance arose, and to work when the need demanded. I learned to share in the tasks of making camp, unloading the boats, setting up the kitchen, cleaning the dishes. I learned to make my first call for beer shortly after 10 a.m., which would have seemed to me a rather damning symptom of alcoholism on dry land but which the river folk regarded as naturally as drawing a breath. But it took time to adapt to the rhythm of the groover.
One of our boatmen was a woman named Kate, young, spirited and a veteran of dozens of river trips. That first night she took charge of assigning camp duties—a couple of people to set up tables, another to haul water to camp, a couple more to gather firewood for the evening's campfire. I'd escaped all these mundane chores, but finally she looked at me and sweetly smiled. "Jim," she said. "You've got groover duty tonight."
"Certainly," I replied. "What's a groover?"
Fifteen years and a couple of thousand river miles later, my naivete seems almost touching, but at the time it was a little embarrassing. I'd never heard of a groover, let alone the nature of its purpose. I had assumed, in my ignorance, that the disposition of bodily wastes would be accomplished in the same manner as on a backpacking trip—dig a quick cathole, complete the mission and get on with life, a little lighter, a little cheerier.
Kate took me by the elbow and walked me over to a large green rocket box placed off to one side of the rest of the gear. Beside it was a smaller ammo can, which she opened to show me a collection of toilet paper, a small bottle of Clorox bleach and a smaller bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap. "You'll be setting up the toilet tonight," she said.
I didn't ask why she had singled me out for this honor, but I did have a question. "Why do you call it a groover?" Blessedly, Kate took me under her wing and informed me that the name "groover" came from the propensity of a rocket box to leave deep impressions on the backside of a recent user. "It's a throwback to the old days," she said. "Don't worry about it. We have a seat that goes on top of the box."
She then proceeded to instruct me on the philosophy of establishing the river toilet. It should be at least a couple of hundred feet from camp, but not much more, she told me. People must be able to find it in the dark or in an altered state of consciousness. Most importantly, she said, the groover should be situated in a place of pride. One wants a spot with a view. The groover should command a panorama of the river. It should inspire the user to great things.
I took her words to heart. I found a nice place, on a tamarisk-covered flat a few dozen feet above the river, with a fine view of the sandstone cliffs. I imagined those who followed in my footsteps might enjoy watching a crimson sunset if their timing was right. Still, as a child of privacy-loving parents, I couldn't help but feel a bit uncomfortable when it came time to actually perform on this pedestal. I used it, but with a lack of enthusiasm and a feeling the whole event was distinctly undignified. I felt not relief but a lingering sense of shame and embarrassment.
"Don't worry about it," Kate told me. (She was a fine boatman and a fine human being, but she seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in the regularity of her crew.) "Lots of people get pinched up for a day or two on their first river trip."
And so it went. By day I learned to love the river, with its calm insistent flow through the deep canyon, past ancient ruins and rock art, beside stands of cottonwood trees opening the first green leaves of spring. In the evening we would make camp, cook dinner, sit beside the campfire and drink beer while Kate and some of the others played guitars and harmonicas. It was a peaceful trip. But I had not yet made peace with the groover.
My personal epiphany came after three days on the river, by which time we had devastated our beer supply with three days still to go. Fortunately, the geography of the San Juan provided a solution. About a third of the way through the float the river bends north toward the tiny town of Mexican Hat, which offers a dirt boat ramp as a takeout for shorter trips. Although it has expanded somewhat in the last decade and a half, back then the town was home to a couple of gas stations, a small motel and a single, downtrodden bar, all within a few hundred feet of the river's banks. No one cared to contemplate the horrors of three days without beer, so we pooled what money we had and marched toward the bar. Our options were Budweiser at $5 a six-pack, or Milwaukee's Best at $3 a six-pack. With limited funds, quantity counted more than quality so we bought eight cases of the pride of Milwaukee and trooped back to the boats with our prize.
As we loaded the boats, I felt the first grumblings of intestinal activity. I noted this instantly, and decided to act while I had the chance. Where there's a bar, I figured, there must be a men's room. And in that men's room there must be a toilet, a real toilet, made of porcelain, with a chrome handle and a fine resin seat. An infinitely superior alternative to the rusted and reeking groover. "Excuse me, folks," I hollered, jauntily, to my friends as they labored under the hot sun. "Nature calls."
By then, Nature's call had become sharp and insistent, and I fairly trotted up the sandy slope to the bar. I burst into the building, and the proprietor cocked a wrinkled eyebrow at me. "You folks need more beer?" he asked.
"No," I said. "We should be able to make it. I just need to use your restroom."
He smiled, and although now I realize I should have recognized the ironic nature of that twisted grin, at the time I mistook it as an expression of gratitude for his recent financial windfall from the sale of all that beer. "Just around the corner, through the pool room," he said.
I walked into the pool room, where a couple of ancient Navajo gentlemen were absorbed in a game of 8-ball. I nodded to them, and they tilted their heads ever so stoically in return. And then I got my first look at the restroom. I suppose it was clean enough, but it lacked two things I would have considered essential for any public facility. The restroom itself lacked a door. Worse, the stall containing the toilet likewise lacked a door. Worse still, both non-doors faced directly onto the pool room. My Navajo companions would have an unobstructed action shot of me no human had seen since mama lifted me from my potty chair for the final time.
There are times when Nature is an obnoxious bitch, with a vile sense of humor. Her call had passed beyond persistence to the point of absolute necessity. I had no choice. I dropped my shorts and took a seat.
I do not speak Navajo, but I didn't need to. I had always imagined the average Navajo as a distinguished, somewhat aloof fellow, but these two guys were absolutely reveling in my misery. They talked, they laughed. Their sides were shaking as they pointed at me with their pool cues. I tried to get into the spirit of things, smiling and nodding stupidly, but in truth I was not amused. I performed my duties quickly and efficiently, and when I finished I walked rapidly through the pool room, pausing only for a slight bow to acknowledge the applause of my audience.
I ran back to the river, leaped into my boat, and suggested it would be nice if we left shore quickly. The next evening, as a cool breeze blew over the San Juan, I wandered away from camp. I followed a sandy trail through rocks and scrubby brush, over a small rise. The trail led to that night's rest area. As I remember it, a single beam of sunlight pierced the overcast sky, illuminating that steel box with a gentle golden glow. I'm almost certain a tear trailed from my eye at the sight. I had passed the first test in my education as a river runner. I had learned the lesson of the groover.
