This story is Day 13 of my 14-day series which follows our whitewater rafting trip through 226 miles of the Colorado River (June 15, 2026).

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Last Day. Best Day.

“It is so important that we stay in the day. We aren’t living tomorrow…”

These were Bec’s morning words as she gathered us into a circle. Her guidance was gentle, but her warning was stern. Don't let thoughts of the outside world steal away the time we had left on the river.

It was Day 13, our last full day, and we'd already started talking about going home.

What food would we eat first? How good would that hot shower feel? What had happened in the world while we were gone?

“We have lots of rapids and miles to cover. Take it all in and don’t ruin our last full day on the river.”

Then our stoic river guide flashed her signature grin and rallied the troops.

“Last day. Best day!”

Then Bec sent us off for a three-minute meditation. We scattered across camp to reflect on the past thirteen days and what we wanted to take with us.

My thoughts settled on simplicity.

Life on the river had been remarkably uncomplicated. We had what we needed, and little else. Our days revolved around the river, the people around us, and whatever adventure awaited. I hadn't missed the noise of the outside world nearly as much as I’d expected.

I wondered how much of that simplicity I could take home. Not just fewer things or commitments, but being more intentional about the people and experiences that filled my days. What did I want to let go of? What deserved more of my time and attention?

Less is more.

I didn't want to return to business as usual. Instead, I wanted to bring a little more of the river home with me.

Pack em Up

With our thoughts back in the moment, we returned to our familiar camp pack-up routine.

Packing my dry bags had become muscle memory. I knew exactly what went where and in what order, with my toothbrush and sunscreen always packed last. I was reminded of George Clooney in Up in the Air, meticulously packing his carry-on with practiced efficiency. He was an air warrior. I had become a river warrior.

The guides rarely needed to give instructions anymore. We knew what went onto the rafts first (heavy kitchen equipment) and what went last (the groovers). Fire lines formed as we passed dry bags from camper to camper, loading each boat with its carefully counted supplies. What had once seemed like a complicated production now ran like a well-oiled machine.

Our diminishing supplies reflected the passing days. The burlap bags that once bulged with beverages were nearly empty, their contents long since consumed and eventually expelled into the Colorado River, our urine dispensing system.

Bec's food management was equally impressive. We'd enjoyed restaurant-quality meals without shortages or spoilage, and even had ice left for our nightly drinks.

Thirteen days in, we'd become a pretty efficient little river community.

Rafting Community

With our boats loaded and camp cleared, we eagerly launched. Garrett and I joined Ben on his raft, picking up on conversation like old river friends.

Water-gun fights broke out between boats, our laughter occasionally drowned out by the roar of approaching rapids. The camaraderie extended beyond our fleet boats to other rafting outfits making their way down the Colorado.

A large motorboat pulled alongside us, its guide recognizing Ben. After exchanging greetings, he tossed over a bag of ice. Different rafting companies, but part of one river community.

Ben explained that guides often shared supplies. Guides launching later sometimes delivered supplies to crews already on the river. Earlier in our trip, a passing motorboat had delivered new sandals to one of our assistants, whose worn-out footwear had prompted a request. The delivery brought a squeal of joy.

As the motorboat pulled away, I marveled at its size. It could have carried our entire group, now spread across seven boats. With only two guides aboard, I wondered how different their experience was from ours.

I couldn't imagine trading our nine guides, their teamwork, and the fun they'd brought to every day of our adventure.

River Natives

Between rapids, our 25-mile journey offered plenty of quiet stretches for naps, nature watching, and conversation.

Midday, a bald eagle entertained us as he soared overhead, scanning the river for prey. We watched in fascination as he made quick, calculated swoops toward the water, seemingly oblivious to his audience of rafters below.

Later, at our final campsite, another river native provided entertainment. A playful beaver swam in and out of a nearby rapid, twisting and turning through the current much as we had a week earlier at the Little Colorado River confluence, wearing our PFDs like oversized diapers.

From our wobbly three-legged happy hour stools, we watched his antics. The more we laughed, the more he seemed to perform. We were strangers in his territory, but he had no interest in our perch on the sand bar. He was perfectly at home in the rapids.

Elephant in the Room

Dave, our fearless camp host, announced a white elephant gift exchange for our final evening together. The rules were simple. We chose something from our river belongings to give away, wrapping it in a sarong or bandana we intended to keep.

We'd draw numbers, take turns opening or stealing gifts, and retire each item after three steals.

Back at camp, I surveyed my belongings. My options were limited. Most of my clothes stank. I was beginning to wonder whether a faint smell of urine was real or lodged in my imagination.

I settled on my orange Telluride Brewery trucker hat, while Garrett offered his solar charger. Would either be a coveted steal? We hadn't a clue.

That evening, we gathered in a circle, tossing our wrapped gifts into the center. Then we waited for the guides. Their usual evening huddle was taking forever.

Finally, they joined us, added their gift to the pile, and the numbers were drawn.

The Shirt Off My Back

Although my trucker hat wasn't a coveted item, Garrett's solar charger was. Other popular steals included a water gun, our well-traveled kayak floatie toy, and clothing that had become familiar sights throughout the trip.

Bill snagged his friend Allen's happy hour shirt. Most evenings, Allen changed into his signature western button-up, complete with long sleeves, snaps, and embellished shoulders. Southwest fancy. By now, the shirt was as recognizable as Allen himself.

The group roared as Bill unveiled his treasure. Feeding into the frenzy, he performed a striptease-style dance while changing into his new shirt, with moves rivaling those of our playful beaver from earlier that afternoon.

Ultimately, Bec claimed Allen's shirt on its final steal. I'm still hoping to see it make an appearance on AzRA's social media, enjoying a second life on the river.

We soon discovered why the guides had taken so long to join us. They'd used a black permanent marker to sign an old blue AzRA T-shirt, adding personal messages for whoever took it home.

“You shit, I shit, we ALL SHIT. :) Sanne”

“Rubber Boat Love – Ben”

“Keep dancing with the waves!! Dennis”

The signed shirt became a sought-after treasure, landing with Shantel after its final steal. Other shirts made the rounds, including Steph's ‘Hump Smarter’ model and a Metallica T-shirt Bill proudly wore the next day.

From Strangers to Friends

The stealing was half the entertainment. Deals were negotiated, strategies hatched, and good-natured bantering filled the circle.

My orange trucker hat never inspired much competition, but Shantel's forest-green hat did. Bearing the words “Save Water, Drink Tequila,” it eventually landed with Andrew. Barely old enough to have graduated from water to tequila, he wore it well.

Watching Andrew and Shantel tease each other, I thought back to their water gun battles earlier that day. They'd arrived as strangers, Andrew with our Indonesia-connected group and Shantel with the larger New Mexico crew. Thirteen days later, they were carrying on like lifelong friends.

Over the course of our journey, the lines between our original groups had disappeared. Age, zip code, and the people we'd arrived with no longer mattered. We'd become one big, wonderfully mismatched river family.

Owen wouldn't let the moment pass without a group photo. He set his camera timer and scrambled into position just in time. Wearing newly acquired shirts and hats while holding toys and treasures high, we grinned for our final photo together.

Skinny Dipping

With the sun setting and dishes cleaned, I thought our last evening was coming to an end. But Shantel had other ideas.

“We're all going skinny-dipping tonight.”

Shantel insisted we needed to say goodbye to the river properly. And we'd wait until dusk to avoid unnecessary exposure.

Was I in?

Sure.

I needed one last dip in the Colorado to escape the heat anyway. What difference did it make if a few friends joined me, minus our clothes? I'd simply slip off my sarong for a nanosecond and disappear underwater.

True to my word, I found Shantel and her recruits at dusk. We waded into the cool water, still covered in our sarongs. Then, with shrieks of exhilaration, we shed our coverings and began splashing around, holding our clothes above the water.

And then there was Ireke, diving naked into the river with his bright white backside practically glowing in the moonlight.

Not one to waste an opportunity, I'd also brought along soap in my free hand, hoping to rid myself of that lingering odor I could no longer convince myself was imaginary.

I hadn't skinny-dipped since I was a teenager. And while my adult self couldn't resist multitasking with a little personal hygiene, I enjoyed that same childish delight of doing something completely uninhibited.

I made a mental note to give Shantel a big hug once we were all dressed again.

One Last Night Under the Stars

Attempting to empty the burlap sacks of booze was common on the last night of a river trip. On past nights, we carefully followed our no-more-than-three-can apportionment. But this last night… it was a group effort to empty the bags.

Bill and Celia had extra wine, and I happily accepted a pour into my insulated mug. I added seltzer water to dilute it, but lost track of how many times I said yes to a top-off.

What had turned out to be our last day, best day, did not translate into my best night of sleep.

I woke in the middle of the night, wide awake. Although I knew better than to drink wine before bed, a lesson my menopausal body had long taught me, I had ignored rational thinking.

With sleep nowhere in sight, I turned my attention to the brilliant sky overhead. Thousands of stars filled the darkness, accompanied by the familiar sounds of the Colorado River rushing through nearby rapids.

I searched the clusters of stars, trying to identify a constellation, when a shooting star suddenly streaked across the edge of my vision.

For a moment, I just stared in awe.

Watching alone beneath that enormous sky, I couldn't help but see it as a sign. The Grand Canyon was bidding me goodbye.

Eventually, I began drifting back to sleep, unaware of the time.

Now could I start thinking about tomorrow, Bec?

Meditating