Tim Cahill stands along the

Yellowstone River near his home

in Livingston. The well-known
writer died and was brought back
to life during a rafting trip in the
Grand Canyon.

The DEATH
of TIM CAHILL
BY TIM CAHILL
PORTRAIT BY THOMAS LEE

ust yesterday,

I was standing out in my backyard

in Livingston, Montana, throwing a tennis ball on
the roof of my house. My dog raced along the side
of the house, listening to the thump and roll of the
ball, then caught it on the fly as it dropped near
the garbage cans. Dexter the Dog trotted back
and dropped the ball at my feet. There was a brief
contemplative moment. It was unclear who enjoyed roof
ball more: me or the dog. It was a very simple pleasure to
be sure. But if it is possible to be happy mindlessly throwing a ball, I had to imagine that, yes, I was happy.
Now, frankly, Dex and I have been doing this for
years. I had never thought of our game as one small
component of a life well lived. I suppose that is because
I had never died beforeand then been resuscitated
as I had been just a few weeks earlier. The experience
might have made a philosopher of a finer man. Me? I just
thought, I never realized how much I like roof ball.
My death experience happened in the Grand Canyon,

on the Colorado River, at Lava Falls, the nastiest rapid

on the river. There were 16 people in my party and it was
the 14th day of the trip. Wed navigated the other rough
stretches with some ease. Crystal, Hermit and Granite
rapids were all behind us. Lava Falls was the last big one,
the most challenging.
Our party beached our five rafts and numerous kayaks
just before the rapid, in the roar of surging water echoing
off rock walls. We had to shout to be heard as we walked
up the steep trail on the north side of the river to scout the
rapid. And there we stood, all of us, staring down at an
anthology of the dangers a river can muster. There was a
pourover at the top and it dropped into a huge hole which
had at its tail an enormous wave curling back upriver.
This meant a raft or kayak or swimmer caught in the hole
could end up endlessly circulating in a process some call
being Maytagged.
There were great curling waves to the right and the
current, in places, jumped 10 feet in the air. Toward the
bottom of the right side, the flow broke around a monolithic rock maybe 40 feet high. You didnt want to hit that
rock. The river would crush you and hold you there. Its
called being postage stamped.

It felt like swimming through a shining

monochromatic kaleidoscope and I found myself
thinking, This is really kind of pretty.

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY

No, youd want to avoid the top pourover by entering

right, then youd pull left because, near the bottom of the
rapid, was another large hole, a last wily Maytag lying in
wait. So it was abundantly clear that a river craft would have
to pull very hard left to avoid the rock and then even harder
left to skirt the hole near the bottom of Lava Falls.
We were done scouting but we all just stood there for
another 20 minutes, staring and, in my case, feeling a little
stunned. No one spoke much. I didnt know my team well,
but I had noticed that while they sometimes cursed, they did
so infrequently and appropriately. I liked that about them
and, consequently, was making an effort to speak with a
certain civility. So I looked down at the rapid that would kill
me in about 15 minutes and whispered, Gol dang!

October of last year, I was

invited on a private rafting trip though
the Grand Canyon. Id never been there
but it was a place, I had been endlessly
toldyoull excuse meof heart-stopping beauty. I did not know any of the
other 15 river runners except for Harry
Butler, the younger brother of a guy I hung out with in high
school in Waukesha, Wisconsin. All the other participants
were also from Wisconsin; they either lived there, or had
some cheese-encrusted association with the state.
Harry was a cross-country skier and avid kayaker. Wed
talked about that a bit when I had returned to Wisconsin.
So, presumably, he figured that, even though Id lived in
Montana for 40 years, I might still understand Wisconsin
folks (beer, cheese, Green Bay Packers). Moreover, he knew
Id spent almost 40 years traveling overseas, often in rough
conditions, and consequently might even know what I was
doing on a river trip. So when someone dropped out of this
trip at the last minute, I was an obvious person to call: a guy
who might be able to carve out the time and get his poop in
a pile in 10 days.
Most of the party had kayaks, and I quickly realized
ack in

that the five rafts were support for the kayaks. Wethe
rafterswould carry food and tents and sleeping bags. I
was paired off with Bill Hobbins, who welcomed me with
the information that, at 71, I was the oldest guy on the trip,
an honor that had previously been his.
Bill did not inspire immediate confidence. Ah, I dont
know what Im doing here, he said. Then he proceeded to
load the raft, strapping down gear and rearranging things
in such a way that wed lose nothing if the raft flipped. Over
the next few days, Bill proved to be a master. The raft packing was arduous and Bill wanted to do it himself. He was
the captain of our raft and felt responsible for the gear. In
the dry Arizona air, securing the gear with webbing straps
and pulling them tight made his fingertips bleed. No matter.
Thats what Super Glue is for.
And then we were out on the river. The kayakers, to
my untrained eye, seemed insanely talented. They spoke
of rivers theyd run in the Midwest and the South and the
West. Many had kayaked in Central and South America.
They talked kayaking at a length that I found required
several strong shots of Scotch for me to tolerate. After a few
days, I asked the group whether they might be considered
elite. Hardly, Harry said and there were some muffled
chuckles at the idea. The talk turned to truly great kayakers theyd either known or seen. But they werent fooling me:
these guys were great in kayaks, but they werent going to
say it because cheeseheads dont brag on themselves.
My raft mate Bill Hobbins, for instance, who originally
presented himself as a sort of doofus, was, in fact, both
tough and omni-competent. It took days to drag all this out
of him, but the guy was a kayaker, an open boat captain, a
record breaking ice-boater, a guy who was offered a full ride
to play hockey at the University of Wisconsin (he turned it
down), a boxer and a judo instructor. And, though he was
dyslexic, he held a masters degree in science and could
read the river like a book, a skill he tried his best to help
me learn.
It was a winter tripfrom the end of November to
mid-Decemberand the temperature at night sometimes

I guess I thought I was smart. The others were always pulling

off the tops of their dry suits in the warmth of the sun or when
they got overheated while paddling or rowing. I was perfectly
comfortable, and in those times when I caught a chill, it was
easy enough to row for an hour and work up a sweat.
10

PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

Kayakers corral the Hobbins-Cahill raft downstream from Lava Falls after both men were ejected from it.

dropped into the 20s. In the daytime, on the water, the

temperatures might rise into the 50s or even hit the low
70s in the hour or so the sun peeked over the narrow rim
of the canyon. Everyone wore dry suits, waterproof material secured by tight wrist and ankle bands and even tighter
neck bands. I did not. I cant stand dry suits. The neck
bands, called gaskets, choke me. I know they can be cut and
adjusted, but they still choke me. I wore good waterproof
gear over heavy fleece worn over expedition weight underwear. My dry suit languished in the bottom of my dry bag.
I guess I thought I was smart. The others were always
pulling off the tops of their dry suits in the warmth of the
sun or when they got overheated while paddling or rowing.
I was perfectly comfortable, and in those times when I

caught a chill, it was easy enough to row for an hour and

work up a sweat.
But rowing was, in fact, more difficult than Id imagined,
even in the slower water. While Im perfectly at ease rowing
a fishing boat down the Yellowstone near Livingston, the
Colorado was another matter altogether. The volume of water
was astounding, as were the eddies. You could get trapped
in an eddy and it might take 10 minutes of hard pulling to
get back into the main current.
And that main current was something. Rivers are generally rated on an ascending scale of difficulty from 1 to 6, but
the Colorado has its own system, and its rapids are rated 1
to 10. I could take rough water labeled 3 or 4 easily enough,
but the 5s made me a little queasy and the one 6 I navigated

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY

11

The second involuntary breath was less pleasant. There may

have been a third. All I know is that I came out from under
the raft and Justin Kleberg and Rachel Butler yanked me into
the bow where I lay gasping like a freshly landed tuna.
was scary enough that I turned the rest of them over to Bill.
Then, on the 14th day, we found ourselves on a hillside,
scouting Lava Falls, the rapid rated the highest on the river,
a 9, and I just stood there, dumbfounded, looking down at
all that hyperbolic water. Holy cats, I muttered.

he kayaks went through first and took

up rescue positions near the tail of the

rapid. John McConville took the right
entrance and pulled left neatly. Steve
Smits followed. Justin Kleberg hit it
perfectly and so did Dan LaHam. Four
rafts through the rapids, all waiting for

Bill and me.

I had stripped off my fleece, reasoning that if I had to
swim, I didnt want a heavy jacket weighing me down. It
may have been simultaneously the stupidest and smartest
thing I did that day. Bill entered the rapid to the right and
immediately pulled left. I was kneeling in the bow, holding the perimeter line. A wave curled up under the boat
on the right and I highsided by leaning into it. Later, I
saw a video of that run, shot from the bank by a group that
followed us down the river. In the video some nasty bit of
rogue hydraulics came up from the left and tipped the raft
to the right. And all of a sudden I was in the water. At the
top of Lava Falls. There was a lot more mean water below.
This, I thought, does not bode well.
The video shows Bill being tossed sideways and struggling to regain the oars, which he did fairly quickly. But he
couldnt see me and chose not to row and risk hitting me,
probably in the head. An unconscious swimmer is unlikely
to survive. Deciding not to row meant Bill hit the hole at
the bottom of Lava Falls and was flung some distance to
the right and out of the hole. A kayak picked him up in less
than a minute. The raft made it through upright.
Meanwhile, I was somewhere in the rapid, under the
water. Ive studied the video frame by frame and have never
seen even a hint of my blue rain gear. Anywhere. I know I
must have been pretty deep despite my life jacket, because

12

I recall looking up at a 10-foot-wide round hole. The surface

seemed about 15 feet above and the center of the hole was
so calm that I could see through it to the blue Arizona sky.
I swam toward the surface, glad that I wasnt weighted
down with fleece. The rapid didnt much scare me. I swam
varsity at the University of Wisconsin for four years. Even
set a pool record at Notre Dame. (They tell me it lasted
about a week.) In any case, I was a few feet from the surface
when the hole started to fall apart in various shining ovals
that dropped off on the downstream side while the rest of
the surface looked like large shards of glass exploding in
slow motion. It felt like swimming through a shining monochromatic kaleidoscope and I found myself thinking, This
is really kind of pretty.
And then the water dropped, as off a cliff, and I felt
myself falling in air. That gave me a needed breath and I
continued to fight my way through the shards of the kaleidoscope. I had no idea where I was in the rapid, but I wanted
to thread the needle between the rock and the hole at the
bottom. Perhaps I made it. In any case, I surfaced in the tail
of the rapid where I managed to grab a rescue kayak. I dont
know who was paddling, but I grabbed a back handle and
kicked hard. The water was still rough and a dead weight on
the back of a kayak will sink it.
The kayak pulled to an eddy where a raft was waiting.
I grabbed the perimeter line, gasping for breath. When I
looked downriver, another rescue raft, pushed by the eddy,
was coming in fast. Too fast. These rafts are 18 feet long
and weigh a couple thousand pounds. I didnt want to get
crushed between them. So I ducked under and swam. But,
moronically, I swam the wrong way.
Exhausted and disoriented, I swam against the strong
current of the eddy. That meant I was all but trapped under
the second boat. I recall taking a large involuntary breath of
river water and thinking, Well, that wasnt so bad.
The second involuntary breath was less pleasant. There
may have been a third. All I know is that I came out from
under the raft and Justin Kleberg and Rachel Butler
yanked me into the bow where I lay gasping like a freshly
landed tuna.

Grand Canyon floaters Jennifer Gordon and Steve Schmit

swap a high five after teammates successfully resuscitated
Tim Cahill, whose heart had stopped for several minutes. EMT
Justin Kleberg holds Cahills head steady, fearing a neck injury.
PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY

13

Fortunately for Cahill, his

float party and a second one
on the river that day included
medical professionals, such
as nurse Steve Schmit, center.
He monitors Cahills pulse as
another nurse, Liz Arnold, and
EMT Justin Kleberg, left, work
to keep him warm and stable
while they await a rescue
helicopter.
PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

14

I have to say that a helicopter ride over the Grand

Canyon isnt much of a treat if youre lying on your
back in a neck brace, staring at the ceiling.
Justin rowed across the river to a large area called
Tequila Beach, where groups that run Lava Falls typically
stop to celebrate. I crawled off the raft and walked 15 or 20
steps over the sand. Roy Crimmins, a guy whod paddled the
whole river in an abbreviated canoe, handed me a beer. I sat
down, passed out and died.

I thought Id simply passed out for a bit. But up top, theyd

seen a man die and then be brought back to life. The
group that followed us was there as well. Theyd run the
rapid without incident. But this place had a special meaning for them: a friend of theirs had died kayaking Lava
Falls and they were there to celebrate his life. Now, theyd
seen another man go down. But suddenly that man was
back, breathing and alive. Everyone was deeply moved. It
didnt make any sense to me.
A National Park Service helicopter, contacted by satellite phone, was on the way. Since I didnt know my heart had
stopped, it seemed like a waste of resources. The helicopter landed, a paramedic did a quick examination, turned to
my team and said, You guys saved a life today. I thought,
They did?
I have to say that a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon

I only know from

what Ive been told. My boat mates
said that I stopped breathing, turned
blue, and then, they said, they lost
my pulse altogether. The team sprang
into action. They cut my life vest off
with knives. Justin Kleberg, a wilderness EMT, started CPR. After 30 chest compressions, Steve
Smits, a registered nurse, drew two
rescue breaths and Kleberg started
compressions again. Dan LaHam,
at my arm, shook his head. Still no
pulse.
Sometime during the sixth round
of CPR, Bill Hobbins saw my eyelids
flutter. Cmon, Cmon, Cmon, he
shouted. LaHam said he could feel
a pulse. And then it was getting
stronger.
And I woke to someone sitting on
my stomach pushing my sternum three
quarters of the way to my backbone.
Was that the sound of my ribs cracking? What the hell?
Rachel Butler says, You roared.
It must have been some kind of rage
to live. It was loud. I recall trying to
wrestle Justin off of me and throwing
Tuesdays
Wednesdays
Thursdays
Fridays and
a few ineffectual punches. It took
Tacos and
Live bingo
Trivia at 7;
Saturdays
seven of us to hold you down, Bill
live jazz
Live music by
Live local
Hobbins said.
Strangeways at 9
music
And when I looked up at the
people Id just punched, I saw men
102 N. Main Street, Livingston, MT (406) 222-1095
and women wiping away tears. This
www.mintbarandgrill.com
Follow us on Facebook
seemed an overreaction. At the time,
hat comes next

Mint Bar & Grill

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY

15

PHOTOS COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

At top, members of the Colorado River Miracle Team wait anxiously while medical
professionals administer CPR to Cahill after he was submersed in the Colorado Rivers Lava
Falls. Above, rescuers load Cahill into a National Park Service helicopter for transfer to a
hospital in Flagstaff, Arizona.

isnt much of a treat if youre lying on your back in a neck brace, staring at the
ceiling. I was taken to the Heart and Vascular Center of Northern Arizona, in
Flagstaff, where I was put into intensive care. I felt fine, except that Justin had
done the CPR correctly and fractured a lot of ribs. I was coming to the realization that my heart had actually stopped for several minutes. Id died. Tests,
however, showed that I hadnt had a heart attack. Perhaps Id simply drowned.
The care at the hospital was superb and I got to talk to a lot of doctors and

16

I have little or no
emotional investment in
my death and resurrection.
I wasnt there, after all.
nurses who simply wanted to hear my story. It seems that
CPR isnt very effective in cases of cardiac arrest. There is
something like a single digit percent of success. What the
doctors said, what the nurses said, was that my recovery on
Tequila Beach was a miracle.
I began thinking of my boat mates as the Colorado
River Miracle Team. But miracle or not, I still didnt know
what had happened. I have a theory though. The water
was about 45 degrees. And I was swimming in it hard for
20 minutes, or so it seemed. In thin rain gear and without
fleece. So there may have been a hypothermic reaction. I
wasnt there for the exciting part (because I was unconscious), but I believe I may have gone into what is called the
mammalian diving reflex, a condition in which the heart
slows down in cold water. Blood, needed by internal organs,

is shunted away from the hands and feet. Breathing slows

and sometimes stops.
That all made sense, but then how I was able to get out of
the water and walk?
I guess Im just going to have to call it a miracle and live
with that.
Still, I feel a little guilty about it all. I have little or no
emotional investment in my death and resurrection. I wasnt
there, after all. Intellectually, I wish I felt compelled to feed
the homeless or cure cancer. To somehow devote my life to
doing good works. But no, about the only thing I got out of
the experience is a realization that I like to play roof ball
with my dog.
What can I say? The river was deep, the guy in it was
shallow.

SHIELDS RIVER RESERVE

A premiere lifestyle property with
its harmonious blend of nature and
exquisite amenities
n

+320 Acres of Varied Terrain

With Year-Round Access
Approximately 1 Mile of Pristine
Shields River Frontage
Larry Pearson Designed Main Home,
Guest Quarters and Studio
Expansive Views, Protected Wildlife
Habitat, Hiking and Riding Trails
Convenient Distance to Downtown
Bozeman and Livingston

LIST PRICE

$2.95 MILLION

Tracy raich Broker | Owner

406.223.8418

TRACYRAICH.COM

LIVINGSTON, MT

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY

17