In this piece I take a look at what we can learn during time spent in the outdoors. “Life lessons on the river” is an endless topic of discussion, with the main theme being change. A river is nothing if not the embodiment of change as it scours its way down through layers of rock, changing the very face of our Earth. Through the lens of our years rafting together as a family, I ruminate on what we have learned in our time outside on the water.
1: How It Started
IN 2020, DURING COVID and flush with stimulus money, Wendy and I purchased a fourteen-foot Aire Tributary raft and all the associated gear: frame, oars, oarlocks, dry box, drop bag, dry bags, cam straps, PFDs, power inflator, pump, patch kits, rope, throw rope, Paco pads, ammo cans, and some bright red webbing for a perimeter line.
Of course, I had no idea what to do with all this gear. I had never rigged a boat for river travel, much less rowed one. It was one of the most impulsive decisions we had ever made. Wendy had been on a few trips with her girlfriends, one of whom had years of experience with her own boat. Those trips instilled in Wendy a burgeoning awareness for the majesty and serenity of the big river canyons in Colorado. She loved being on the water. I had been on two guided trips decades prior, one as a highschooler and the other in college. Needless to say, we had no business owning our own boat.
But that didn’t stop us.
The boat was delivered weeks before any of the other gear. COVID caused all sorts of shipping delays. So we had a boat and nothing else. We decided to buy two canoe paddles and take the raft to our nearest reservoir to launch from one of the swim beaches. We inflated the boat with our Ryobi power inflator next to the stand-up paddleboarders. The five of us then each took a D-ring and began hauling the boat down the access trail to the beach. People had to stand aside to let us pass. The boat was a lot heavier than we thought it would be. The girls, at age five, eight and ten, did their best, but it was hard going. We made it to the beach to the amused attention of the sunbathers. While the power boats and SUPs did laps around us, we sat on the thwarts and paddled our raft on flat water. Rafts are sluggish crafts not meant for flat water. It was more like a floating platform. The girls jumped off the tubes and swam. We soaked up the sun and laughed at the silliness of the outing.
We certainly were not “rafting”, but, like that, the adventure had begun.
2: How We Got In Over Our Heads
That June, at the Cottonwood Island put-in on the Colorado River, we prepped the boat for a float to Dotsero. We had already dropped my bike as I planned to ride back on the river road to get the van. Pickup trucks with flat trailers and winches backed in and expertly dropped their fully rigged boats. They were heading down river before I had finished inflating my boat. I had no trailer so everything had been crammed into the back of the minivan. The frame, which holds all the gear and the oarlocks and straps to the D-rings on the raft itself, was lashed to the roof rack on the van. I unloaded everything to the side of the boat ramp and felt like a fool as a steady flow of trailers were backed in and rafts were winched into the water.
Finally, rigging complete, I decided to ask a nearby rafter about the river. Its implacable flow and mighty reputation had me a little rattled. I knew the section we were about to float was an easy Class I, meaning nothing big, just some short section of riffles. Yet, just downstream I saw a 90° bend in the river. I could see the water being shoved into the bank and I wondered how to navigate that turn. Up to now, I had never rowed a raft before. The oars were each nine feet long, heavy and unweildy.
“Hey,” I asked a nearby rafter, “anything I should know about this river?”
“Never been out here?”
“No, this is our first float.”
“Wow, ok, well…just stay in the middle, I guess.” His tone had gone from a chipper more-than-willing-to-help to a morose these-people-are-idiots. Was it my kids running around chasing our dog getting in the way of everyone trying to back in their trailers? Or me rigging up my boat on the side of the boat ramp? Or my minivan? Or my stupid question? I wonder.
Stay in the middle, I thought. I can do that.
3: The Outdoors as Classroom
I often wonder if the amount of time I have spent outdoors has taught me anything. If I spent as much time in the classroom as I’ve spent outside, I would be a highly specialized—highly paid—expert…in something. But am I an expert in the outdoors? Does that count for something? I like to think it does. On that fateful day—which still lives in infamy for our naivete—along the Colorado River, rowing my own boat for the first time, I learned more than I learned in months sitting at home doing things I was comfortable with. I was bound to learn life lessons on the river.
4: We Gain the Skills
We survived that trip and several others on the Arkansas and Gunnison rivers. We gained wisdom through experience. I learned how to read a river. I came to understand that in rafting you do not make quick maneuvers. You must look downriver and get yourself into position well in advance. I learned about ferrying (moving across a river while limiting your downriver rate), pivoting (spinning your boat 180° by pushing one oar and pulling the other), eddies (sometimes strong enough to keep you out…or in), knot tying and CFS (river flow in cubic feet per second). The girls became stronger swimmers. We figured out how to keep a cooler cold for five days in one hundred degree heat. We became efficient at setting up and breaking down riverside camps, using a “bucket brigade” to haul gear to and from the boat. I built custom baltic birch running boards to affix to the frame for ease in moving around the boat. Early on in our adventures a few of us had fallen in while trying to change positions.
To celebrate our increasing comfort on the river we coined river names for ourselves: Captain, Spider, Eagle Eye, Splash and Too High. They were all earned through various shenanigans on the water. Sienna, aka Too High, liked to climb trees. Ava, Splash, was our inveterate swimmer. Teagan, Eagle Eye, was our skilled observer. Wendy, Spider, had discovered a giant wolf spider on (thankfully, not in) our tent one night. And me, aka Captain, was just the guy rowing the boat.
5: Things Get Real
After that float from Cottonwood to Dotsero we embarked on our first overnight trip with some friends. The put-in for this adventure would have us floating through two Class III rapids. This frightened me. I felt unprepared for such things. People get bumped out of boats in rapids. Boats get pinned on rocks and flip. Could I keep my family safe? My kids were not all strong swimmers. This felt foolish. But there it is, I thought, I have no choice now.
We met at the Pumphouse put-in on the Upper Colorado River. By the time we were rigged and afloat it was late in the day. I had studied the two rapids we would hit that day: Eye of the Needle and Yarmony. Eye of the Needle required a quick right-to-left pull to avoid getting pinned. Yarmony looked a bit more forgiving, but had several rocks lurking in the whitewater that could cause trouble. I studied and studied and studied. I watched videos, researched river levels (which would change the dynamics at each rapid) and made mental notes.
At Eye of the Needle I surprised myself with my skill. I pivoted the boat at just the right moment and pulled for all I was worth as large rocks loomed. We slipped through into calm water and were through. At Yarmony I read the river properly and noted all the rocks and positioned ourselves just right. We hit the wave trains and the girls whooped and hollered as we all got a little wet. We slipped through that one into calm water. Evening, which I had not noticed coming, had set in. Wendy took over and I fell in exhaustion onto the Paco pad. I also had not noticed the toll that the exertion of rowing and the nerves of the rapids had taken. The canyon opened up and soft evening light slanted onto the eastern river bank. It was silent except for the lap of water on the raft tubes and the occasional caw of a crow overhead. Otherwise, the world could have been frozen in time. The girls were tired. Wendy had stopped rowing. The landscape had firmly grabbed our attention. We were being lulled by the magic of the hidden world in one of the world’s great river systems.
6: What the Girls Learned
In October of 2020, during fall-break from school, we set out down the lower Colorado River on a float known as Ruby Horsethief. These are the names of two canyons the river flows through on a twenty-five mile journey from Loma, Colorado to Westwater, Utah. The setting is sublime. As the canyons narrow the sheer rock faces plunge directly into the water. In places the rock overhangs the river in little alcoves. Here you can float underneath and see sunlight sparkling and flashing on the crimson sandstone as it reflects from the waves on the river. Sparrow nests cling to the vertical walls. Hollows and pits form ghostly shapes in the walls as tiny depressions weathered deeper over the ages. You can lean out and slide your hand along the smooth, sun-warmed rock as you silently drift by.
This was our most ambitious trip yet. We planned three nights in camp, four days on the river. For this journey it would just be us. We would have no one else to rely on to bring gear, help with navigation, find camps, or cook.
On our previous trips we learned by doing. We did not wait until we had answers to everything we needed to know. If we had, we never would have set out. I didn’t even know what I needed to know.
Now, however, I had learned enough to start getting my act together. I spent a month tinkering with the boat in the garage. I built my custom running boards and a captain’s box. I cut straps to length and made a list of which straps were used for which piece of gear. I practiced tying knots and adjusted the frame, including a new cross bar down in the foot well for increased power while rowing. We added a drop bag and figured out how to strap our camping table in. We bought more gear and practiced packing it all. The garage became my hideout. I practiced throwing my throw rope in the driveway, seeing if I could hit a target thirty feet away. I read blogs and trip reports online. I ordered two rafting guidebooks and read them both cover to cover. We reconfigured our camping and cooking gear to store more effectively in the boat.
The first night in camp on that trip was incredible. It was cold, but the skies were clear and blue and the cottonwood trees along the bank were in a blaze of yellow. Standing underneath their embrace was like standing inside a yellow ping pong ball. The girls explored along the river bench. They climbed into the trees and discovered a huge branch perfect for sitting and gazing. At night we saw the lights from mountain bikers on the Kokopelli Trail. This was a trail I was familiar with, but only upon looking at my map did I realize that’s where the bikers were. I had dropped another piece of a geographical puzzle into place. Being in these canyons was to explore an entirely new world from the one we were used to seeing from trails and roads. It was a brave new world here.
Boston and San Francisco freight trains roared through the canyons at intervals. When the drivers, with their arms leaning on the window sills just like truck drivers, saw us they would pull their air horns and wave to us. We felt an instant kinship with them. Just us and them down here, I would think. The girls loved it. As soon as the unmistakable thrum of one sounded, they would eagerly stand on the bank, or in the boat, and await its arrival, pumping their arms in the unmistakable mimic of pulling on an air horn cord. I think the train drivers must like it, too. I can’t imagine they get a more enthusiastic welcome than they do from rafters in the canyons.
Ava, to the surprise of us all, swam in the river during our days floating. The water was ice cold. The rest of us spared no time debating whether we wanted to swim or not. But Ava eagerly stripped down to her suit and jumped in. She would float along behind the boat in her PFD smiling and kicking to keep up. If I saw a riffle, or a fork in the river coming, I would shout at her to get back in. She became a strong swimmer and could use the current in her favor to assist in getting back to the boat. Often, I would need her to get back quickly as an island approached, or the water got rough. She was learning how to become a river rat. And that she had some seriously thick skin.
Teagan would tell us stories around the campfire, or jokes. She could make all of us laugh. She took obvious delight in making us do so. She was also a natural moderator between her older sisters who could get feisty with each other at times. But what she learned most on these adventures was how to be observant; how to see the things around her; how to take it in, which, for a five-year-old, is not an easy thing. Her river name, Eagle Eye, was testament to this newfound ability of hers. Floating past the mouth of Knowles Canyon she spotted a juvenile eagle on a branch at the very top of a ponderosa pine. Juvenile eagles are a mottled brown, very difficult to spot, but somehow she did. Thanks to her I have a video of the eagle taking flight from the top of the tree, swooping down to river level, and disappearing around a bend.
Sienna found that she could handle those big, heavy nine-foot oars. Often, she would paddle while Wendy and I took a moment to relax in the back of the boat. We’d look at each other and smile as we were conveyed down the river by our slim and trim ten-year-old daughter. But she really could maneuver them well. She learned that it didn’t require brute strength (which it certainly did at times) but instead a finesse with an eye down river. Life lessons on the river, for sure.
Our final night in camp stands as one of the most memorable for me in a lifetime of camps. When your kids get older, family time gets harder. Kids get started down the paths of their own individual lives. This is fine and expected, but it makes the intimate time we spent together in that isolated camp deep in a canyon on the Colorado River that much more magical.
We played frisbee while the last of the sun ignited a huge wall of sandstone opposite. The contrast between the light on the wall and the shadow below was enough to send our eyes dilating wildly. The sandstone cliffs looked as if they were set ablaze. Meanwhile, the river continued its endless toil toward a tumultuous meeting with Whitewater Canyon and some big water. Here, perhaps sensing the oncoming turmoil, the river was lazy and serene. Its quiet susurrations out there in the fading light were calming. There was a feeling of having the world to ourselves. I would fully have believed someone if they’d told us the world had stopped and mankind had disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I would have been content with our position. The frisbee clattered on the rocks when we dropped it, which was far more frequent than when we caught it. The girls laughed as I took a video capturing the fading light on the canyon walls behind them. It was like a moment captured in amber.
The outdoors doesn’t always have to teach us something.
But, unlike at home in the busy world, it always provides a setting capable of transcendence.
7: What I Learned
In 2021 we did another fall-break Ruby Horsethief trip. Low river levels and mud made our launch difficult. I had to stand in shin deep muck to rig the boat. If I had done so closer to shore I never would have freed the boat from it. Finally, with everyone loaded—having carried the girls to the boat—I tried to push off, but couldn’t. Wendy tried pushing off with an oar, but it was like testing a cake with a toothpick. With Ava holding on tight to my forearms I managed to give one final shove and the boat floated clear. I was hanging on to the perimeter line; half in the water, half out. I hauled myself aboard and rinsed my feet and shins as best I could. The boat was a muddy mess in no time.
The skies were pewter gray. Rain squalls moved through in succession. We all wore rain gear and hunkered down from the weather. This was drastically different from our summer floats in hundred degree heat. Wendy determined that perhaps what she loved about rafting was sunshine and cold drinks. This was a different beast. There wasn’t a thought about swimming, even from Ava. We all drew inward a bit to deal with the conditions.
At camp we set up our 10×10 shade structure to give us some respite from the rain. We waited to set up our tent for a dry spell. Later, we lit a fire, but the rain returned and doused it. We fled to the tent for an early bedtime. I awoke at an indeterminate time to hear water pouring out onto the ground. The tarp I had rigged between the shade structure and our tent was filling with water and then emptying. It sounded like a bathtub faucet being turned on. I woke every time, afraid it was pouring into the tent.
In the morning the sky was so clear and blue I had a hard time believing it had rained all night. The rain, however, was then replaced with a more forbidding element: wind. There is a common mantra among river travelers: Get started early and get to camp before the afternoon winds kick up. Because they always kick up. And they are always upriver. The canyons become an alarmingly efficient funnel, channeling the winds through them.
From our camp we had eleven miles to reach our next one at Black Rocks. On a late-season, low-flowing river I would be lucky to cover two and half miles an hour. Throw in headwinds and this could make for a long day behind the oars.
They hit us shortly out of camp. If I stopped rowing for any period of time the wind made downriver progress impossible. In fact, it appeared as if the wind was actually pushing us upriver, against the flow. Wendy took the oars to spell me, but had a hard time making any headway. I pulled for all I was worth, standing up on my foot bar to maximize power. I pivoted and pushed when I needed a break. Pushing, at least, gives you the benefit of seeing where you are going. But pulling is far more powerful.
Waves of surprising height for a flat river swamped us on occasion. The wind forced us toward the eastern bank. It was all I could do to keep us in the current. As we approached a sharp turn to the south the wind began pushing me unerringly for a large black boulder in the middle of the flow. The water was piling up ominously against it. This small rapid, an easy Class II, is the crux of any float to the Black Rocks campsites. Normally, it is nothing too difficult. Today, though, it looked bad and I could not get my boat in the right position. Visions of pinning and flipping filled my head.
Pinning a raft is when you broadside a rock and the current forces the upriver tube underwater and the downriver tube high up in the air. The current then pins it there and it can be almost impossible to remove without some drag lines and someone well versed in Safety and Rescue Training. Of course, on top of the raft being pinned, is the very real possibility that all your passengers and at least some of your gear will be dumped into the river. I was never going to let that happen to my family…and yet, here I was.
Already exhausted from hours of battling the incessant winds I began pulling in desperation. I was angling the boat at 45° toward the left bank. That ferry angle was exposing my broadside to the rock, but it was the only angle of attack I could come up with. I was confident I could skirt past. Standing up against the foot bar in the rower’s well I used every ounce of strength and weight I had. I pulled those oars harder than ever before. The girls were quiet and still, perhaps willing those oars to pull even harder. They sensed the tension and danger. The finesse and an eye downriver was out the window now. It was all about brute strength. Me against the wind and the river. An undoubtedly losing battle. Preposterous in the first place to think I could win. I imagined us hitting the rock: imagined the raft tilting high while water flowed into the boat over the lower tube. Finally, I imagined us, and all our gear, being dumped into the cold, indifferent, river. It happens all the time (an example below).
But not today. One final epic pull and we tracked left of the rock and slipped past. My work wasn’t done as the wind now wanted to blow me into the far shore, but I had avoided catastrophe. Another dozen pulls and we slowly beached at our campsite. I can hear the quiet grating of the tubes against the gravelly sand in my head, even now. Everyone piled out. I sat there motionless and exhausted. My hands were cramping and muscles in my arms were sporadically, and randomly, firing. Finally, a synapse told me to get up and get out of the boat.
The relief in camp that night was profound. Everything was clearer, tastier, warmer, softer. More in focus. The danger posed by our near miss added a clarity to things afterwards. I never really thought we were going to be pinned and dumped, but it was close.
We had chicken satay for dinner. The peanut butter sauce, with rice wine vinegar and red chili, was vibrant and full of flavor. We had a fire in our fire pan. The resounding crackles of the dry wood ricocheted off the canyon walls like gunfire. We gazed at the stars. They were so brilliant in this untainted dark sky. They flickered like torches. We walked down to the river shore and its quiet murmurings were once again soothing and calming. Such a fickle beast, this river.
I had known, through countless bikepacking and hiking trips, that I had a reservoir of strength I could rely on when things looked bleak. But I had never really known how deep. I discovered that it is potentially limitless. This is how humankind is capable of such astonishing feats. I believe we all have it. I also believe that most of us never access it. Having done so myself, I felt infinitely lucky. Lucky to have discovered this portion of myself that could do hard things when all else seemed spent. Lucky to have learned life lessons on the river.
At the take-out the next day we had another near miss. While preparing the raft for travel (by now we had one of those fancy flat trailers with a winch) I asked Sienna to disconnect the tubes. We have three of them and the girls can lounge in them while we float downstream. They are connected to a D-ring with cam straps. As she got the straps undone she lost hold of one of the tubes and lunged out to get it, not realizing how quickly the water deepened. She lost her footing and suddenly she and the tubes were floating downstream away from the ramp. Alerted—since she hadn’t made a sound and I was working in the front of the boat and Wendy had taken the other two girls up to the bathrooms—to her situation by a nearby boater who had seen her slip, I hurriedly took off my PFD and jumped in to get her. We swam back to the bank and also managed to snag one of the tubes. Another rafter decided to go for the other two tubes which were well into the middle of the river by now. We all watched him as he got a running start, dove head first and then swam hard, grabbed one, and somehow made it back to shore before being too far downriver to make landfall near the ramp. We cheered his efforts.
I was thankful everything worked out and was a little ashamed at my littering as I watched that last tube get smaller and smaller. Truth be told, I was mostly haunted by the close call. What if no one else had been around? What if she had never called out for fear of realizing she had made a mistake? What if I had turned around and she and the tubes had just been gone? What if? What if? What if? Just downstream, as I have mentioned, from the take-out are some big rapids as the river channels into Westwater Canyon. I had nightmares of her being carried into Class Vs with grim names like Skull or Last Chance.
Rivers demand respect. At that moment I had finally learned that lesson, too.
8: What Wendy Learned
In 2022 we took one of our final adventures down the river. In 2023 we would set out on an entirely different sort of family adventure that would require us to sell, among almost everything else including our home, our beloved raft and trailer. For three years rafting was an incredible part of our lives.
We planned a week-long excursion for the fourth of July, once more down Ruby Horsethief. But this time we would take our sweet time. We would spend two nights in one camp, giving ourselves the rare “camp day.” We would stay in some new campsites we had not yet seen. We would hike up into one of the side canyons. And, of course, we would stay a night at Black Rocks, among those fascinating outcrops of precambrian basement rock, the so-called Vishnu schist. Exposed at the deepest part of Ruby canyon, it is among some of the oldest rock on the planet at 1.9 billion years old. Its deep ebony color and smoothly rounded curves, sculpted and fluted by eons of river erosion, are starkly in contrast to the sharp and crumbly ledges of sandstone that override it. They look entirely out of place as they emerge from the river.
For this trip I researched how to keep a cooler cold for a week with no chance of resupply in one hundred degree heat. The river rats down in the Grand Canyon have perfected this craft. They manage to keep coolers cold for weeks at a time. However, there are strict rules and age-old practices around doing so. Pre-cooling a cooler is an in-depth topic all on its own. Dry ice, block ice, and chipped ice all have their place. Meat, double-bagged in Ziplocs, and gallon jugs of water are frozen and placed in the bottom of coolers. Insulating layers of foam, cut to fit, are applied as a top layer inside the cooler. Wet towels are repeatedly placed over the tops of coolers to keep them cool in the intense heat of canyon country afternoons. And if you open a cooler when you are not supposed to you may well lose a hand when the guide slams it shut. So I learned a lot from those gritty Grand Canyon outfitters.
At Mee Canyon, we hiked up into the side country. This canyon is broad and expansive as it meets the Colorado river. It is also loaded with aggressive deer flies in July. For half a mile we hiked up through knee-high grass toward the canyon. The flies feasted on our arms and legs, and their bites were sharp and painful. Wendy, making a game out of it to help the girls, made them dance when we stopped for water breaks. Finally, she convinced them to run back to camp to escape the flies. When we returned to camp she sat with them while they covered themselves head to toe with the soft, silky-smooth river mud, like they were at some high-end health and wellness spa.
About a hundred yards upstream from our camp was a tall cliff of Vishnu schist. It plunged straight into the water. Wendy walked with Ava and Sienna along the shore and climbed to the top. They stood poised on the lip. Then, as Wendy pumped up their confidence, they jumped. For a breathless moment they were frozen in a tableau of a classic rite of passage. There was no longer any division between mother and daughter, adult and child. They were just three people living life to the fullest. They splashed hard and came up cheering and laughing. Then the current got hold of them and brought them back down to camp. A minor eddy provided a momentary difficulty in reaching camp. Shouting encouragement, Wendy shepherded them into our small beach and they plopped down on the sand with big smiles.
Later, as the sun dipped behind the canyon wall—setting earlier in this riverine hallway—Wendy helped the girls out of their wet swimsuits. She helped them clean the sand and grit off their bodies. Digging through their backpacks, she helped them find their warm layers. Soon, they were ensconced in fleece pullovers, sweatpants, warm socks and sneakers. Then, Wendy pulled out one of the frozen water jugs we had placed in the bottom of our cooler. It was beginning to melt. She retrieved our five cups from the dry box and poured water into each of them. Never in our lives had we tasted water so sweet…and so deliciously cold.
That night clouds built overhead. I watched through the mesh off the tent ceiling (we had not attached the tent’s rain fly) as the stars were obscured. I heard distant rumbling. Wendy, awake on the other side of the tent, told me to get up and help her put on the fly. We climbed out of our sleeping bags, careful not to wake the girls, and dug through the dry bag searching for the fly. After we clipped it in place we climbed back in the tent. Teagan was awake and worried about the storm.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll be fine,” said Wendy. She rubbed her back, helping her fall asleep once again.
A few drops of rain hit the tent, but nothing much developed beyond that. In the morning, Wendy made us pancakes and sausage on the camp stove. She served us as we sat in our camp chairs bundled up against the morning chill. It would be a hot day, but early in the canyons it is cold.
In short, Wendy learned some life lessons on the river, too. Like how to take care of us all in the backcountry. She learned how to be a mom to children who need extra assurances for their safety and security. When they were being bitten by ruthless bugs she distracted them and turned it into a game. When the storms were building she encouraged me to get up to put extra protection on the tent. When the chill came she made the girls realize how nice it would feel to put on warm clothes.
She also showed the girls the beauty of doing hard things and succeeding. She convinced them to jump off that cliff into a river intent on nothing more than sweeping everything in it down stream. The river has no qualms, no mercy. I was nervous about the idea. But, true to form, Wendy assessed the feasibility of the plan, and knew they could do it. She showed the girls the power of getting out of their comfort zones.
The list of aggravations and discomfort go on and on for kids in the backcountry. Sometimes it is too hot, too cold, too buggy, too dirty. The call of comfort can be overwhelming. Yet, Wendy, through it all, is able to make our girls feel loved and protected and secure.
9: Life Lessons on the River
Over the years we began experiencing the take-out blues. This is a common affliction among rafters. It is also a transferable longing among anyone who travels or goes on adventures. After every trip the yearning to answer the call of the wild would slowly and almost imperceptibly creep in. In fact, it would begin as soon as the raft was winched onto the trailer. Home, once again, I would walk into the garage and the plastic smell of phthalates in the PVC raft tubes would assault my nose. I would see my whitewater guide maps, splattered with river mud, sitting on my desk. The dry box full of gear would still need to be unpacked and cleaned out. A beautiful stretch of weather would appear on the forecast. One of the girls would suddenly remember something from the last trip. Wendy would show me a picture of us on the boat or the girls swimming in the river or jumping off a rock into the water. It would occur to me that we were all suffering from the take-out blues.
Our raft is gone now. The take-out blues have faded. Those incredible trips are nothing more than memories. Maybe someday we will have another raft, but I don’t think so. Life moves on and new things come down the pike. I believe that the lessons we learned on the river are lifelong ones that will stay with us as we move forward with our lives. And, while some of these lessons can be learned at home in our day-to-day lives, I believe they are stronger and more impactful in the outdoors.
Erik Weihenmayer, an adventurer from Boulder, Colorado and an individual with an astonishing life story, has touched on this belief. His experiences on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, in which he kayaked its full length, is impressive enough. But he has an added challenge that many who choose to tackle the big rivers do not. He is blind. In his adventures, which also include climbing Mt. Everest, he discovers how the outdoors can provide such an influential place to learn about ourselves. In No Barriers: A Blind Man’s Journey to Kayak the Grand Canyon he says this: “Perhaps, the secrets of a river were not revealed by trying to exert the ego over it, but rather by letting go and allowing the river to consume you, all the way down to the core, by simply giving in to the unknowable…”
We rarely give “in to the unknowable” at home. Life requires us to stay on our game; to pay the bills on time; to show up to work ready to go; to get our kids to school; to maintain the house, feed the dog, get the oil changed, make dinner, see the doc, and on and on in an endless cycle. The drudgery of day-to-day life can get us down if we are not careful. Yet, it can also be a way to stay busy and to stay sharp. It certainly does not, however, allow us much time to let go and to give in, to open ourselves up to whatever might come.
On a river or on a trail we can do that. We can let all the fluff slip away and focus on ourselves, on our family or friends, and on the present. Also, when doing hard things outside and suffering hardships—be it wind on a wide-open river, fear of jumping off a cliff, discomfort with bug bites and sunburn, or thirst and exhaustion—we expose our emotions and strip them “all the way down to the core.” The richness of our experiences were fortified by the depths to which we rubbed our emotions raw. Building ourselves back up from those moments we became stronger and learned a thing or two about ourselves in the process.
Epilogue: Parting Shot
The day after Wendy, Sienna and Ava jumped off the cliff, Teagan decided she wanted to do it, too. So she and Wendy walked along the shoreline game trail and climbed the cliff of schist. Looking down, Teagan experienced a moment of doubt. Wendy, calmly and reassuringly, told her it would be fine, that she could do it. Wendy said she would be right there waiting for her. She jumped first and treaded water, waiting, as promised. I thought I would have to go and retrieve Teagan from the top of the cliff. But she summoned strength from her experience and without another moment’s thought she jumped off into space and air.
In the brief moment she hung there she learned about courage over comfort.
