The Grand Canyon River Expedition (Day 12 of 14: Rafting the Colorado River)
Scouting Lava Rapid
This story is Day 12 of my 14-day series which follows our whitewater rafting trip through 226 miles of the Colorado River (June 14, 2026).Previous Story: Day 11
Next Story: Coming Soon
Another One Bites the Dust
“Good morning. You’re dead.”
Our camp game continued with killings galore before the sun had fully risen. Garrett secured his next victim, Peggy, at the hand-washing station, his designated kill spot. She took the weapon, a soap bottle, before she was even fully awake.
With our camp mortality rate rising at a feverish pace, fouls were being called just as quickly. Fortunately, we had an attorney in our group. Greg, our lawyer-turned-referee, heard the arguments, brought three victims back to life, and tightened our rulebook's interpretation.
With enough survivors to keep Death on the Colorado alive, the strategy and deception continued.
Peggy forgave as quickly as she was killed. She and her husband, Kevin, joined Garrett and me in Jim’s dory for our twelfth day on the river.
Dangers in the Desert
After breakfast, we packed up for a short hike before taking on the notorious Lava Falls. Following a shaded, dry riverbed between steep rocky walls, we enjoyed the morning coolness as the sun peeked through the canyon slots.
Deeper into the canyon, we encountered challenging climbs over large fallen boulders and slate cliffs. Soon we were looking down on the same wonders we'd admired from safer ground.
Although afraid of heights, Shantel tackled every climb with gusto. Just a few nights earlier, she'd survived a ringtail cat that used her head as a jumping-off point in the dead of night. No doubt she was equipped for anything the Grand Canyon threw her way.
As her husband, Ireke, cheered her on, others in our group added to the encouragement. Twelve days in, we had fully merged into a camping unit. Shantel free soloed the largest scramble climb like a badass.
Hiking down rocky terrain continued to be a challenge for me. Slinking my body through too-tight rocky formations felt like being birthed from a boulder. But our group was always looking out for each other, lending a hand through these tricky spots.
Our biggest obstacle of the day wasn’t rock climbing or potential falls. Andrew earned the dubious honor of being the only one on our trip to encounter a rattlesnake. It was Danny, Andrew's dad, whose ever-watchful eye spotted the rattler before either party got acquainted.
Lava Time
Hiking back to camp, our adrenaline was high from rock climbing and rattlesnake avoiding. We were ready to take on Lava Rapid.
Jim rowed our dory downriver as the terrain began to change. We were surrounded by dark lava formations radiating heat and signaling the namesake rapid ahead. And as the landscape intensified, so did the roar of white water.
Trying to remain relaxed, I focused on my breathing. As he tied up our boat at the scouting point, Jim likely noticed my tension and encouraged us to have fun on Lava, our last major rapid of the trip.
“Lava will be great. You should all join us in scouting it.”
I stayed in the boat.
A few others stayed back too, helmets secured, quietly waiting for the others to return.
My rationale felt sound. I hadn't scouted a rapid yet, and we'd never flipped a boat. Why test fate now?
As everyone returned, Ireke shared that the one time he rafted through Lava, he ended up backward. To his credit, he read the rapid without seeing it and stayed upright. Suddenly, I was grateful there were no oars in my hands and no need to rely on my own river judgment.
Time to plunge into Lava. My silent chanting continued with a few added reminders...
Two good handholds. Stay in the f’ckin boat. Please don’t get turned around, Jim. Oh... and have fun.
Twenty Seconds of Lava
Jim explained that we'd been running between 6,000 and 10,000 cubic feet per second (cfs). The guides felt confident in their approach to Lava. As always, Ben led the charge, the first to drop.
As I silently waited for our turn, Dayno in the next boat picked up on my tension.
“Sandy, you will want to do it again! Lava is so fun!”
Before I could fully take in his comment, Jim dropped us into the roaring white-water abyss. With Ireke's backward ride fresh in my mind, I was grateful to be facing forward.
I started counting backward from twenty. Surely we'd be through this thing in twenty seconds.
Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
The water was massive, crashing over us from every direction. It felt less like riding in a boat and more like swimming through the rapids. I held on as Jim maneuvered our ever-bobbing dory through the chaos.
Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen.
And just like that, I could see Ben and the others waiting downstream. We were through it. Still upright, soaking wet, and grinning.
And it was fun! In fact, it was a lot of fun.
Yes, Dayno, I did want to do it again.
We pulled over nearby for lunch and a brief celebration. But rising temperatures and gusting winds soon sent us back onto the river.
The guides fought the wind and heat, rowing mile after mile. With only two days left, we needed to cover ground to return to civilization on time.
No Checking the Box
As we approached a busy spot resembling a floating parking lot of roped boats, Jim slowed to scout the situation.
After a short assessment, he decided to move on. Almost apologetically, he explained that the heat and crowds hiking to the popular falls would make for a miserable experience. Even tying up our boats would be difficult.
Without second-guessing, we nodded in agreement. Jim had earned our trust, and no one challenged his judgment. Although disappointed we would miss this popular Grand Canyon attraction, he complimented us for having no FOMO.
“I am so glad you all are not ‘check the box’ people.”
He appreciated our collective river mentality of going with the flow. After some probing, we heard stories of past campers who didn't share our mindset. Their behavior rivaled that of unruly airline passengers.
If only there were a reverse review system from guides to campers. Clearly, we'd score high.
Keeping an eye on the time, Jim found a shaded spot to camp for the night. No one complained about what we'd missed. We kept our eyes on what lay ahead.
Booty Call
After unloading at camp, the youngsters in our group spotted a rocky island just downstream. They deemed it swimmable. With Jim's approval (as long as they wore PFDs), they rallied others to join them.
Still giddy from Lava, the youngsters, along with Garrett, Brett, and Peggy, swam to the island like pirates on a quest. One by one, they climbed the rocky cliffs and jumped into the river. Several of us watched from the beach, serving as spectators and, if needed, lifeguard patrol.
When a cry rang out, we all stood at attention.
“River booty!!!”
Relieved no one was in distress, we noticed someone passing around a bottle. As I watched Garrett take a chug, I turned to Shantel for clarification.
“Are they drinking from an open bottle of alcohol?”
Shantel nodded. I was amazed again by this river version of my husband I never knew existed. Smiling, she reassured me that the alcohol would kill any germs. No one was going to die.
We later learned they'd discovered a geocache tucked into the rocks atop the cliff. Along with the bottle of tequila were other treasures, including nude photos and a notebook to register their find.
The Raven
As the campers played, the guides prepared our dinner of chili and cornbread. We had been schooled not only in the chemistry of two-week food preservation and cold storage, but also in the usefulness of a Dutch oven on the river. Baked delicacies were a daily treat from this heavy contraption. Though it was hard to transport for two weeks on a raft, it was well worth the effort.
As we baked cornbread and filled our beach with amazing aromas, our cooks fought off high winds and hungry ravens.
As the guides laid out the chili ingredients, the wind whipped the tablecloth and everything on it. I helped retrieve scattered items, only to find a raven inches from my hand.
Soon, one smart raven swooped onto the table while we were preoccupied. Grabbing a seasoning packet in his claws, he flew high onto the rocks to enjoy his loot.
Worried about our chili's flavor, I climbed up the rocks to negotiate ownership with the raven. He was gone by the time I arrived, leaving behind a pecked packet. Apparently, he'd sampled the seasoning and found it wasn't to his liking.
Happy with my food rescue, I proudly returned the saved but damaged packet to the cooks. They smiled, thanked me, and promptly threw it away. There were plenty more in their supplies. Apparently, they were prepared for raven food theft.
Not their first rodeo.
Rafting Poet’s Society
As we enjoyed our flavorful chili, it was announced that we would have Poetry Night. A fake fire was arranged with branches that eerily resembled wooden flames. We gathered around in our three-legged camp chairs to listen and take turns contributing.
Neither Garrett nor I are poets. We looked around, wondering whether one or two brave souls would take center stage.
To our surprise, our group had plenty of poets. From guides to campers, they stood one by one to recite their favorite poems.
We were clearly the minority.
We sat back, listening in awe as the poets among us took the stage. Jim read his favorite Bob Dylan lyrics, while Gayla recited from memory a favorite poem filled with maternal wisdom passed down by her mother.
Sitting among this circle of friends, although not a poet, I belonged.
A New Normal
I started this trip with a goal of survival, always looking forward to the end. But much had changed. I was already feeling nostalgic for the experiences and the people I'd shared them with. During the quiet stretches of our 190 river miles, I often found myself lost in thought.
Past memories and present feelings sparked thoughts about the future. Instead of longing for what I missed outside the canyon, I focused on what I needed to cut out.
Simplification would be my new normal.
Lying next to Garrett at night's end, I could feel his joy radiate as we replayed our hike, Lava Rapid, and his group swim. I may be the leisure athlete of our duo, but the trip was just as fulfilling for me as it was for my skilled outdoorsy husband.
As the wind picked up, sand blew across our open-air camp. But Garrett was no longer fighting it. He had surrendered to sand warfare, giving in to the power and pleasures of the Grand Canyon.
