Rafting the Canyon - Part 1

I turned both ankles at about mile 2 of the seven mile hike down the Bright Angel trail into Grand Canyon.  Eric had gone ahead, bent on a mission to see Phantom Ranch, so the helping hands that got me up again were those of relative strangers.  These were some of the people with whom we would spend the next 9 days on the Colorado river.

The pain as I stood up was intense.  But I was pretty sure that neither ankle had sprained, although thoughts about how I would cope getting on and off boats in the sometimes harsh environment of the Canyon over the next few days were scudding through my head as I reassured everyone that I was fine.  At the next rest stop, I gulped down a couple of ibuprofen, again proffered by one of my walking companions. And while I set no records, I was proud to be the first woman of the group down at the beach, despite the mishap.

There's nothing like a rafting trip for getting to know folk.  You eat, camp, raft and hike together.  You bathe in the river, drink from the river (the water goes through a filtration process) and you pee in the river.  It's surprising how quickly this becomes normal - although it would be less than the truth to say it ever becomes comfortable.  Private time is a non-existent concept.  If you don't like someone, it's hard to escape them entirely, given the group dynamic.  Your only option is to watch closely to see which boat they elect to travel in each morning, and pick another.

If this sounds like a recipe for disaster (or perhaps for a new sort of no-holds-barred reality TV show), then to some extent you have the right picture.  People of all ages, from different geographies, political backgrounds and religious perspectives are thrown into five boats eighteen feet long and have to make do.  Did I mention that it costs thousands of dollars to do this?

And yet it is a self-selecting group.  Everyone traveling on the trip we just took knew that they wanted to see America's most spectacular natural wonder.  For some, it was a new variety of outdoorsy vacation.  For others, an item to be checked off  their bucket list.  For most, whatever their original motivation in going, it became the trip of a lifetime as we ran rapids through nearly a billion years of geologic history.
 
The Canyon is also a great leveler.  Money, possessions and stuff don't mean much down there.  Helping unload the boat, lending someone an arm to climb over a rock and slicing up onions for dinner become far more important.  No-one is interested in your temperature controlled wine vault in an environment where a beer chilled by the river feels like the best thing you ever drank at the end of each day. 

That first evening, as my ankles swelled up to tennis ball size, I started to benefit from the shared knowledge of our new community.  The guides recommended "icing" my ankles in the 50 degree water of the Colorado.  An energy healer worked her magic on my right foot, which proceeded to heal at a rapid pace. (The left one is still swollen 10 days later).  And I took a dubious combo of ibuprofen and boxed red wine as a sleep aid.



Each year, some five million visitors marvel at a small portion of the Grand Canyon from the rim.  We were privileged to be part of the 25,000 or so who see the Canyon from the river.
I'm not sure if the supermom from Colorado, or the businessman from Georgia or the couple from Florida will ever return to raft Grand Canyon again.  But I know we will.  One of the guides on our trip put it succinctly: "I'm an addict" she said. 

There are worse vices.