The Grand Canyon River Expedition (Day 11 of 14: Rafting the Colorado River)
If a picture tells a 1,000 words… this one best describes Garrett’s and my Grand Canyon Rafting experience.
This story is Day 11 of my 14-day series which follows our whitewater rafting trip through 226 miles of the Colorado River (June 13, 2026).Previous Story: Day 10
Next Story: Coming Soon
He Who is Crowned
With another rising sun came our 11th river awakening. Ditching our tents a week earlier, we had again fallen asleep to vivid stars sparkling in the desert sky. And although the temps had varied from hot to hotter, the soothing sounds of river rapids and the ever-flowing Colorado River remained constant.
My river-living morning routine of teeth brushing after emptying my nightly pee cup into the river had become standard procedure. Next came applying a thick layer of SPF lotion to my face. Also standard was the impossibility of avoiding sand, turning a typically smooth rub into the feel of a gritty face mask. Over all these days, nothing I did had changed the outcome, so I just took the exfoliation boost as nature’s bonus.
While I continued my routine, I noticed Garrett varying his. Instead of his regular cycle of filling water bottles and dry bags, he was seriously focused on securing his birthday crown to his ball cap. The handmade creation, cereal boxes cut into perfect points and wrapped in aluminum foil, had been presented to him the day before by his excellent river birthday planning committee.
Although last night he said he wanted to wear his crown another day, I didn’t think he was serious.
As he diligently fiddled with securing the crown placement to survive the upcoming river rapids, there was no question. He was really going to wear it.
Post-Party Planning
Our hat clips, a necessity for saving wayward hats from joining the thousands lost to the bottom of the river, were the perfect tool for keeping Garrett’s crown on his head. A good thing, since today we would tackle Upset Rapid, rated 9 on the Grand Canyon’s 10-point difficulty scale.
The night before, somewhere between singing Garrett “Happy Birthday” and mapping out the rules of our newly invented river murder game, Jim had plotted a white-water photo op with Owen behind the lens. Aptly named for a recurring rafting result, Upset provided the perfect opportunity. Jim planned to position Owen in the best photo spot to capture every boat running the rapid.
As we packed up our boats, one by one, our fellow campers commented on Garrett’s crown making another appearance. Stephanie, always quick with her wit, reminded Garrett of the coincidence of his choice.
“You know, Garrett, today is No Kings Day.”
Joining in the laughter, her comment also reminded me that it was Saturday. And with that came the harsh realization that Tuesday was only days away.
Our two weeks on the river were coming to an end.
The First of the Lasts
Like my childhood years of mourning the end of a cherished summer camp, I felt the same familiar sadness. But this time, there had been no homesickness. No one was writing home longing for an end. And far from my radar were those days just a week ago when my mornings began with tense thoughts of river guide assessments and rapid survival strategies.
Instead, I had already begun to miss mornings that started with a coffee call in the peacefulness of river life.
“Coffee is ready!”
I would miss the ensuing scramble of packing bags, with an urgency that rose along with the intensity of the morning sun.
“Breakfast! Wash your hands.”
Would I ever stop washing my hands at a rate similar to the early COVID days? Would I actually miss the reminder?
“History talk in five minutes!”
Soon there would be no morning history lesson followed by a day-long field trip where I could see those lessons unfold around me. Instead, I would be back to consuming the news of the day, often without the benefit of understanding all the history that came before it.
“Last call for lunch!”
By the last call for sack lunch prep, three of our group had already been killed off in our river murder game.
The River Games
A variation of Clue, we began playing out our made-up river game in real life. All the campers and guides had secretly drawn the name of their kill target the night before, along with a location and murder weapon.
Some of the stealthiest in our group had made plans to assassinate their targets at dawn. Three had succeeded. Roars came from the group as one ill-fated victim grabbed a spatula in the river. Like the Hunger Games, we were ruthless observers.
Still alive, but with no kills, Garrett and I climbed into Dennis’ dory with Ethan and Danny. Leaving camp at mile 145.5, we would hit Upset Rapid at mile 150.2. Powerful and highly technical, it features a steep 15-foot drop into a wide bottom hole.
After our guides scouted the rapid, they chose the best of two favored lines. In his typical lead position, Ben would run his large supply raft through Upset, then swing the massive watercraft just beyond the hole and hold position so Owen could photograph each boat coming through.
And just like that, Big Ben launched into the merciless waves of white, perfectly running the line and positioning Owen for an eagle’s-eye view of each boat following in turn.
We were next. With Danny and Ethan cheering Dennis from the back, we dropped in…
Garrett wore his crown, giddy as a schoolboy.
I wore my tightly secured helmet, silently repeating…
“Two good handholds, stay in the boat.”
Crystal is Just Crystal. But Lava…
All boats ran Upset, following the line and avoiding the hole without incident. The viewing of Owen’s photos would have to wait.
Relieved to clear another difficult rapid, I wanted to get schooled on why Crystal was such a big deal at the time of The Emerald Mile, but didn’t have any of our guides losing sleep today. I posed my question to Dennis.
“Well, Crystal is just Crystal.”
This was Dennis’ shrugged response. What did he mean, Crystal is just Crystal? People died on her in the ’80s!
Dennis went on to explain that at the time of The Emerald Mile, a once-in-a-lifetime massive high-water surge had dramatically changed the nature of Crystal Rapid. The rapid was already formidable, but at those extraordinary water levels, the familiar route through Crystal became something altogether different.
“But Lava Falls,” Dennis reiterated, “her lines and flow change constantly with varying water levels. We need to scope her out and be ready.”
River guides scout the obstacles before choosing the best line through Lava Falls. That constant change makes her one of the most notorious rapids in the Grand Canyon, with variables that can flip a boat.
And we would go through Lava Falls on our last full day of rafting.
“Alrighty then,” I thought, checking the security of my helmet buckle before taking it off.
A Chance of Rain
Rafting through milder rapids and eventually covering 25 river miles, we watched puffy white clouds gradually turn into dark storm clouds.
While Ethan took a turn at the oars under Dennis’ expert guidance, we took in more lessons about water, from the river itself to the plumbing of the Colorado River Basin. Eleven days on the Colorado made its importance impossible to overlook. We drank from it, traveled on it, and bathed in it, while learning how the system of dams and water flows extended far beyond the canyon walls.
Arriving at our campsite under darkening skies, we felt raindrops begin to fall as the winds picked up. After so many hot days and nights, we were eager for a wet reprieve. But ultimately, the dark clouds produced little. I dug my raincoat out from the bottom of my dry bag for good measure, only to take it off when the rain failed to cool me and a hot flash sent sweat dripping down my back.
As horseshoes came out along with the toy kayaker, many in our group dispersed to play. Others quietly read or took a nap. The smaller groups that had signed up for this trip together had naturally dissolved into one cohesive group.
Killed With Ease
With stormy skies, the boats were securely tied up and ready for potential action. Back on solid ground, most of us were more concerned about protecting our own lifelines. Off the boats meant easier access to murder targets, putting everyone on high alert. Apparently more worried about the weather than my gaming opponents, I accepted an oar from Ethan while standing near the kitchen hand-washing station without a second thought.
Oh… Ethan is handing me an oar by the food. Why would this be odd?
Ethan had spent the day thinking about how he would convince me to take an oar from him so far from the boats. Although he had drawn a difficult combination of murder weapon and location, he had also drawn an easy target. Me.
I was dead and out of the game before I had even come up with a strategy for killing Ben, my intended victim. I passed my Ben card to Ethan.
By nightfall, our murder game had produced a one-third mortality rate. Garrett was not among the casualties. He had killed off our beloved guide John-O to live another day. The only question was whether that day would include wearing his crown again.
Mooning Rules
Our nightly restaurant-quality meals continued. As with every freshly prepared dinner, we watched the crew cut oversized onions, bright peppers, and large squash while we waited in anticipation for the meal of the night. Night eleven brought us a barbecue feast of pulled pork sandwiches with polenta and slaw.
Dinner also brought a quieter environment as happy hour ended and our attention turned to our feast. On any given evening at camp, another rafting group might pass by, often scouting for their own campsite for the night. We kept crossing paths with some of the same groups traveling the river near us, including private trips that seemed to interpret the unwritten rules of river etiquette a little more loosely.
Filling our appetites and faces with barbecue, we politely waved to a private paddle boat passing by. They promptly dropped their drawers, bending over with childish screams to show us their white butts and seemingly endless cracks.
Who was rowing this boat?
Never ones to be outshone by the competition, Shantel and Ireke, the unofficially minted “fun couple” of our group, rallied the rest of us for a group retaliation. As they quickly organized our counter-exposure, Jim jumped into his role as responsible team lead with a hard no. Obviously, he was a stickler for those unwritten river etiquette rules.
“No! Everyone down. We are AzRA, not ass-rah!”
By the Light of the Moon
Later, Garrett and I cooled off and washed up in a private cove. Our exposed rears would remain unexposed, safely hidden beneath the blanket of the river. Eyeing the cloud-filled sky, I wondered if my newly minted Camp Stormy Skies would live up to its name.
After laying our river-washed clothes out to dry on the surrounding rocks and rubbing soothing salve on our river-worn skin, Garrett and I decided to take our chances with the weather. With only a few river nights remaining, we crawled into our sleeping bags under the open sky, watching bright stars peek through the clouds as we drifted off.
No tent necessary.
