This story is Day 5 of my 14-day series which follows our whitewater rafting trip through 226 miles of the Colorado River (June 7, 2026).

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We’re Not in Iowa Anymore

My childhood summers in Iowa included many mornings when I would wake to sunny calm after a night of tornado warnings. On day five of our rafting trip, I woke with that same déjà vu feeling in the quiet of the canyon’s daybreak. Only I was no longer in my Midwestern home. I was lying in a sand-filled tent at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Surveying the damage from the wind-riddled night before, Garrett and I found wayward clothes strewn about and our tent and sleep gear victims of nature’s wind rage.

My Apple watch was dead, detached from our solar charger and likely blown off during the night. I weighed my options. The slow charge from our solar charger felt like a burden in my attempt to maintain my daily routines. Time and tracking no longer felt necessary in the wild of the Grand Canyon.

So, I tucked my trusty wrist companion in the bottom of my dry bag, not to be seen again until unpacking more than a week later, back in civilization.

Women of the River

With all people and possessions accounted for, sand-blasted tents were cleaned and packed away for another journey down the Colorado River.

Over scrambled eggs and cowboy coffee, our blurry-eyed river crew rallied from a night of sleep blown away by the wind.

Andy, our resident trip historian, gave us a lesson on the history of the women who guided the Grand Canyon. Georgie White was a familiar character from the one research book I read before the trip, The Emerald Mile. Known for her river skills, enormous rafts and an even bigger personality, Georgie became a legend on the Colorado River in the 1950s and ’60s.

I was mesmerized by her grit and river savvy. She was known to run the river in her signature leopard-print bikini, complete with a tail for a little extra Georgie flair. She had already been the subject of lively conversation with Bec earlier in our trip, so it was a treat to see Bec show her Georgie fandom by wearing a leopard-print shirt while at the helm of her dory.

Another Groover Talk

After the history talk, we set into motion loading the rafts with our gear. Feeling like our campground routine was finally coming together, we were a little deflated when Jim, our trip leader, called us together for another talk about groover etiquette (for those who missed Sanne’s infamous “everybody shits” talk from Day 1…the groover is our portable river toilet).

Jim held up a foil-wrapped aspirin packet (as an example—not the original).

“This was disposed of in the groover last night. NOTHING goes into the groover but toilet paper and what naturally comes out of your body. Someone had to fish this out. Please don’t make them do this.”

We all nodded and apologized on the outside while making internal bets on the guilty party. We took Jim’s words to heart. There was never another groover incident.

In the days that followed, we showed proper appreciation for our groover with a view. More than once, someone settled in close quarters before the groover location was chosen, leaving us close enough to tempt a shout or a wave. Privacy was officially a thing of the past. Potty time offered little discretion.

Credentials Matter

Our river guide for the day was Dennis. This was a special treat because the dory he ran was also the dory he had custom-built. The other dories were AzRA inventory, but Dennis’ was both named and created with his own hands.

Andy joined us as well. Through conversations about the water and topography of the Grand Canyon, we came to learn that our renowned Fort Lewis College history professor was also well-versed in nature and the environment.

We soon learned that Dennis not only worked as a river guide for AZRA, our trip outfitter, but also ran the company’s finances and operations.

My brain went into overdrive. I had scored.

Dennis was a shoo-in for my pick to get me through Crystal Rapid. With both his boat and his company to protect, he was clearly the most logical choice to safely navigate one of the most difficult rapids in the Canyon.

Practice is Optional

Jim brought the boats together as we approached the first rapid of the day. He thought it would be a good place for us to practice swimming through a rapid in case we were ever thrown from a boat. Apparently, Jim was a believer in practice makes perfect. He explained the basics: feet up, face up, grab a breath when you can, and keep going until you pop out the other side. Then he told us it was optional.

Watching camper after camper bob through the rapid and then get lugged back onto a boat like a large, flopping fish, I decided to pass. I’d had plenty of opportunities over the years to practice swimming through whitewater, never by choice. I’d always come through just fine, although never with much grace getting back into the boat.

The most consistent advice I received before this trip was simple: “Stay on the boat.” Practice or not, I intended to follow it.

Hike-Shamed

We took a late lunch so we could hike and then camp in the same spot. As I finished my BLT in a tortilla, Jim approached me.

“Are you okay to do this hike?”

I quickly nodded yes, noticing he had just asked Stephanie the same question. She opted out, choosing to read under a shade tree instead. I waited for Jim to move on to the campers beside me, asking them one by one the same question. Instead, he walked away to help clean up the lunch table.

He had only asked Stephanie and me.

It seemed logical that he asked Stephanie since she had opted out of yesterday’s Diving Board hike. But why me? He hadn’t even asked the other eight campers who sat out our first hike.

Did he miss seeing me scale a cliff in yesterday’s no-fall zone? Today’s hike was described as more leisurely, with a walk to the top of a slot and a navigable scramble down into a rock valley. Why was he singling me out as a risk?

My face heated into a blush as I came to a humbling realization. I was being hike-shamed!

Determined to get myself off the potential-no-hike list, I moved to the front of the group as our hike began. Time to prove my hike-worthiness. As Bec guided us up the slot with me at her heels, I decided to feel out her thoughts on my hike-shaming suspicions. Surely, she would reassure me that I was near the top of the hiking class for our group. But I didn’t get the answer I expected.

“I’m sure if you ask Jim, he will share specifics.”

Well, shit.

A little shocked but still determined, I stuck with Bec, finishing right behind her with only one minor stumble.

Nap Time

Stephanie happily greeted us in the rock valley. She and her husband, Andy, have been together for close to 50 years. It took me only a day to figure out that having Andy along to share his history and knowledge was a huge perk of this Fort Lewis College Foundation-sponsored trip. Having Stephanie join him, with her charm and wit, was an added bonus.

We all settled in for a break while Jim explained that we were better off hanging out in the shade than moving on to the hot sand of our campground just around the corner. Stephanie took in the backdrop and encouraged some picture-taking.

“Have Andrew take a picture. It’s perfect lighting.”

Not only was Andy our historian, nature advocate, and seasoned environmentalist, he was also a talented photographer. The benefits of our camping comrades just kept compounding.

After some picture taking and conversation, most of us took advantage of the shady retreat and fresh river air to drift off. Like kids at kindergarten nap time, we quietly obliged until Jim woke us by reciting his favorite Shel Silverstein poem. Stephanie, another poet in our group, delightedly followed along with words she already knew.

Lava Who?

With only a short distance around the bend to our campsite, the guides mixed things up by having the raft guides take the dories for a spin. We all packed in for the quick trip to camp, pleasantly cooled from the afternoon heat by the time we arrived.

Five days on the river meant it was time for a little self-care. Toiletries in tow, I found a semi-private cove to bathe, shave, wash my hair, and clean some clothes. Luxuriating in the 60-degree water, I watched the pink of the setting sun settle over the Grand Canyon walls.

Before the trip, the thought of bathing in a river seemed counterintuitive to cleanliness. Instead, it turned out to be one of the best baths I had ever taken. Refreshed from body to soul, I put on a clean dress for our ravioli dinner and river-warm beers.

As the last of the pink sunset faded, Garrett and I enjoyed the company of Irick and Shantel. With her brown braids matching her brown eyes and easy smile, Shantel had a welcoming presence and a big personality. Both she and her husband, Irick, were among the first to help with gear or people whenever needed. They owned their own raft, were seasoned in river life, and had spent time on the Colorado River before.

Still working on my strategy for getting safely through Crystal Rapid, I asked Shantel for her thoughts on our river guides. She quickly shared her short list.

“I think we are going to ask Dennis to be on his dory for Lava Falls.”

Wait, what? I had never heard of Lava Falls, and why wasn’t Shantel worried about Crystal?

In her soothing way, Shantel filled me in on a detail I had missed in my research. Lava Falls was the most famously difficult rapid—and we wouldn’t ride it until the last day of our trip.

I had erroneously assumed we were in the clear mid-trip after Crystal. Apparently, my research had fallen short by limiting it to reading The Emerald Mile and watching YouTube videos on dory boats.

Under the Stars

As I rubbed salve on my legs, I took another look at the gashes on my calf and inner thigh from yesterday’s hike. Perhaps the guides had reason to worry about my hiking abilities after all.

And Lava Falls? How had I missed the most famously difficult rapid on the river? Inherent risks on the Colorado River—yes, I had been warned. Maybe it was time to let the guides worry about the rapids while I focused on good handholds in the boats and safe foot placement on the hikes.

Maybe it was time to stop trying to control everything and just be. Then Garrett threw me a curveball.

“Want to just sleep outside on our sleeping bags tonight and ditch the tent?”

Jesus, take the wheel.

And so began our first tentless night. Sleeping under the stars would become our new normal for the remainder of our nights on the river. Never had the vastness of the universe and the smallness of our place in it felt as clear as it did that night at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

We had been told the next day would be filled with high-class rapids, but that was tomorrow’s business. For now, I was content with a calm night and the view above me. The open sky was filled with stars more brilliant and a moon brighter than I had ever seen.

I drifted into a deep sleep at Camp Lull Before the Storm.