By Day 11, Garrett was still wearing his birthday crown, a murder game was underway, and another Class 9 rapid waited downstream. But somewhere between the laughter and whitewater came a harder realization: our two weeks on the Colorado River were coming to an end.

A birthday on the Colorado River starts with missing coffee mugs and a surprise stash of Cheez-Its, then takes a turn with ten rocky miles through Kanab Creek in 105-degree heat.

A sleepless night, three rapids I didn’t know I should fear, and a hike that had me determined to prove my athletic worthiness. Day 9 brought waterfalls, a 76-foot rim-to-rim swim, river toys, and a few surprises about the people I thought I already knew.

With Big Ben at the oars, waterfalls to chase and seventeen rapids ahead, I stopped worrying about what might happen and started taking in everything I didn’t want to end. Crystal Rapid was behind me, but something else had changed.

For six days, Crystal Rapid had been looming somewhere ahead. By Day 7, it was finally our turn. But somewhere along the first 98 miles, my relationship with the river, and with fear, had begun to shift.

The river was changing, and so was I… with unresearched level-10 rapids, a collision with a boulder, a waterfall playground, and an unexpected lesson in water and life.

After a night of wind wreaking havoc on camp, I woke to an eerily calm Grand Canyon morning. The day ahead brought groover etiquette, hike-shaming, an optional whitewater swim, a luxurious river bath—and the alarming discovery that Crystal Rapid wasn’t the only thing I should be worried about.

The Grand Canyon tested my nerves, rewarded my courage, and reminded me that the best adventures rarely go according to plan. From cliffside hiking to natural water slides to a windstorm that filled our tent with sand, Day 4 was unforgettable.

A scorpion sting. A runaway raft. A guide who answered every question except the one I really wanted answered. By the end of Day 3, Crystal Rapid had slipped from my mind... because tomorrow's hike came with "no-fall zones."

By Day 2, peeing in the Colorado River felt surprisingly normal. Seven major rapids, a broken bilge pump, and a campsite we named "Camp We Got This" helped transform a group of strangers into a river family.

Fresh from city life, I arrived at Lee's Ferry with an empty inbox, an overactive risk assessment, and exactly zero tent-pitching experience. By the end of Day 1, I'd survived my first major rapid, learned the rules of groover etiquette, and officially embraced life off the grid.

When Garrett first looked down from the rim of the Grand Canyon in 2012, he said, “I want to raft that river someday.” Fourteen years later, an unexpected email, a bucket-list opportunity, and a growing curiosity led this self-described leisure athlete to sign up for a 14-day, 226-mile journey through the heart of the canyon.

Preparing for a two-week Grand Canyon rafting trip should have been simple: follow the packing list and buy what I needed. Instead, I found myself overwhelmed by mandatory hats, questionable underwear fabrics, biodegradable soap requirements, and a husband who approached REI like an Olympic event. A story about adventure, procrastination, and discovering that packing may be harder than rafting.

Back in my flatlander days, Garrett discouraged me from big mountain bike rides in Colorado’s high elevation. Last weekend, after years of acclimating to mountain life in Durango, I took on my first Iron Horse Quarter Horse ride. Turns out… flatlanders can eventually mountain.

Before Google, there were stamps, pay phones… and at least eight letters to a popular college basketball player who never wrote back.

A teenage cleaning job. A small-town library. And the kind of lesson you only learn when adults choose not to say a word.

click. click. click.

The sound of Uncle David’s Nikon blended with carnival music as our ferris wheel seat rocked high above Main Street. At seven years old, I gripped the loose guardrail for dear life, caught between fear of falling and the thrill of being photographed like a star.

In 1985, at just seventeen, I found myself swirling a glass of chardonnay in a downtown Sioux City restaurant—my first taste of upscale dining.