Lees Ferry is nestled between the rising Vermilion Cliffs where the Colorado River cuts down into the desert plateau. It's the starting point for all river trips through the Grand Canyon. At sunset, the dessert skies wash the landscape red. The towering cliffs glow orange, even as the stars appear in the deepening blue sky. Fifteen miles upstream, the river is released from the bottom of Glen Canyon Dam and it runs green, clear, and cold. The Rivers peace and majesty counterpoint the excitement and bustle on the launch ramp.

We arrived in a large truck after a 3-hour drive from the cool Mountains of Flagstaff. Once the boats were inflated, rigged, and loaded, we went up to Marble Canyon Lodge for dinner. There, guides drank beer and traded tall tales of river adventure.

When we returned to the boats, we laid out our pads and sleeping bags on the wide decks of the rowing frames across the back of the rafts. I nestled down into my sleeping bag and listened to the guides' stories float into the night air. Watching the stars revolve around my head, I was full of wonder and anticipation, knowing that the next day the current tugging at my boat would float me downstream into the Grandest Canyon in the world for two weeks of adventure and magic.

I was on deck in the major leagues. After guiding all summer in California, I felt ready to test my skills in big water. Although I was only in charge of the "shit boat," I couldn't have been more proud. I would take great care to keep my boat clean and run it as efficiently as possible, and to keep up with the others.

The three paid guides had been teachers in my guide school. Joe Letourneau ("Joe Mama"), had been my manager on the South Fork all season. He had a sarcastic sense of humor that reminded me of some crazed combination between Robin Williams and Don Rickles. He would get wound up on some odd subject and keep everyone laughing for hours. Liz ("Wonder Woman") was a gregarious, energetic veteran of the Grand Canyon. She was great with people and teased everyone mercilessly. After years of dealing with river guides, she found a good offense was the best defense. The trip leader was Curt Smith ("Boss"). With a goat tee and wire rimmed glasses, he looked bookish and serious. But his goofball sense of humor would always catch me off guard. His job was to balance all the elements of the trip, make every decision, and keep the trip running smoothly. In addition to our regular clients and we had a group of outfitters and guides from around the country that were invited at a discount to test a new prototype raft that OARS had developed for the Grand Canyon.

The boats were heavy with supplies, and several feet larger than what we ran in California. I started to learn the feeling of timing and momentum. Once you get those heavy boats moving it is hard to change direction. Boss patiently showed me how to use downstream ferry angles, because no one can fight such a large current. Grand Canyon waves seemed enormous. The river was ten to twenty times the volume I had experienced before. The waves loomed up in front of my boat like house sized linebackers that swarmed over my boat in a chilling flood. We rowed up to six hours daily and my confidence grew as quickly as the blisters on my hands.

A river trip through the Grand Canyon is an amazing spectacle. The cliffs rise a mile high, as the Colorado River cuts through layer upon layer of geologic history. The river gave us access to remote canyons, which held their own unique environments of waterfalls and lush glens. Ancient granaries and settlements from over millennia ago haunted the canyon corridor. The spectacle is overwhelming and powerful. It affects each person in a different way and many are drawn back to it time and again. We hiked canyon, bathed in waterfalls, and observed the geologic tapestry of time. Although none of this was lost on me, my focus was the challenge of rowing the river. Everything else was merely an interruption in the relationship that was unfolding between the rivers currents and myself.

On the fourth night we had a wild party for the guests that were leaving us at Phantom Ranch. Although Curt and Liz went to bed early, Joe Mama and two Oregon River guides lead the charge. By 3 AM we were immortal. By 8 AM the rising Arizona sun burned us like wilting vampires. This day would challenge us with the biggest whitewater yet. In the deepest part of the Canyon steep, narrow, black cliffs shroud the river and hold out the sun. The river, cinched restlessly between these walls, suddenly grew calm and seemed to disappear. We tied up the boats and climbed along the rock wall to look closer. The fishing guides had been boasting all week about how they wanted to row the new prototype raft through Horn Creek Rapid. Water exploded into the air off two rocks that guarded the tight entrance to the rapid like angry sentinels. The fishing guides turned physically green when we scouted it. They asked Boss to row through. The approach to the entrance was nerve racking. The current wanted to drag me onto the right horn. I held my line and turned the boat into the drop between the rocks. It worked! I had mastered my hangover and I had rowed a rapid large enough to scare old river veterans! I really was a prodigy! I had a great natural feel for rowing boats. How could those experienced guides have had any difficulty with these rapids? Why were those hung over wimps so afraid of Horn Creek? My confidence level was soaring. My attitude was dangerous.

The next day was to be our run through the ŒGems.1 It is an intense day full of exciting white water with the second most famous rapid on the river waiting to challenge our skills. Crystal Rapid funnels the rivers full power and fury toward several enormous boat swallowing holes that must be avoided. The current then splits the river around a rocky shoal in the center. We were running it at a low level (about 10,000 cfs), and we would have to break right early and keep working right until we could move even farther right to take the right channel around the Œrock island.1 That morning we all had good runs at ŒGranite1 and ŒHermit1 rapids, and spirits were high.Joe and I watched as Curt and Liz ran safely through. I clearly saw the route and my marker rocks. But Joe pointed my attention downstream. He said that I must remember the rock island downstream and make my move early to one side or the other. There was a rock at the front of the rock island that would be horrible to hit or wrap on. The water flowed swiftly over the shoal and through the boulders. No matter what happened in Crystal rapid, one could go right or left of the island, but I would have to decide early and go for it. As I looked downstream the left channel looked challenging with lots of waves and holes, while the right channel looked open, as it simply bent around to the right shore. The left side looked like more fun, but first I would have to negotiate the main part of Crystal, and then see how things looked.

I was in the front of the second group, which gave me a clear view of the rapid. Three vacationing guides were riding with me who were all many years more experienced than I. There is nothing scarier for a guide to do than ride in anthers boat, especially a novice. Above Crystal Rapid the water is calm, but irresistibly drawn downstream. Then the current builds and narrows until it rockets down a tongue into thundering, exploding, white chaos. The longest moments in the world are when you are floating towards such a maelstrom. I wanted to pull, row, scream, do something, anything except float, but timing is everything. I couldn't start my pull too soon. I needed to time my momentum for when I hit the first diagonal wave to break right.I pulled my oars through the water slowly at first, and then faster and more powerfully as I built up speed. We hit the first wave right, and the second. I saw the marker rock and I sliced into the slack water below perfectly. A cheer went up from the shore and from my boat. My confidence crested its highest point. I really was a prodigy! I had a great natural feel for rowing boats. How could those experienced guides have had any difficulty with these rapids? Why were those hung over wimps so afraid at Horn Creek yesterday? Hell, I was so good I would turn the boat and pull for the left shore now and take that wild looking left channel around the rocky shoal!

As I turned the boat, my passengers at first looked confused. When I started to pull for the opposite, left shore; they started to yell, "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

"The left side looks like more fun!" I exclaimed, a beaming smile on my face, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I started to row left. Changing the momentum of the boat only stopped it at first. Then I pulled harder and we started to move left out into the main current again. I was rowing as hard as I could across the current but the boat didn't seem to be moving where I wanted it to go. Indeed, it seem to be on an invisible wire being pulled towards that very same rock that Joe had so carefully warned me about. Everyone in my boat was yelling at me now to "Pull harder! PULL!" The oars slapped against the wave each time I reached back for a stroke, the boat, half full of water, weighed tons. As a child, I had dreams where I would be running and running to escape some terrible enemy, but I would only slip farther backward. That was how I was beginning to feel. The rock was coming directly toward the side of my boat like a great white shark. I pulled with all my might. I was pulling to the last moment, hoping to hit the rock with the bow of the boat and spin off to the left avoiding complete disaster. But, that was not to be. That rock reeled me in like a fish on the line. We hit the rock dead sideways, directly in the center of the boat. The guides were yelling, "Highside!" as they scrambled to get on the tube that would hit the rock. We jumped on the rising tube as it rode up on the rock. The upstream tube sucked under the current. We flopped out of the boat, onto the rock. We stood up. Stranded. Alone in the middle of the raging Colorado River, stuck on a rock. Then everyone started yelling at once.

"Let's try pushing it!"
"Jump on the tube!"
"Let me get in the boat and pull up the other side."
"Get the bowline out and thread it through the other side of the frame." Everything only made the boat sink deeper and deeper into the water, until it was completely under water on the rock, with the power of the Colorado River tearing equally at both ends. We were over 60 yards from the right shore and the left shore was a cliff. I was stunned. In 30 seconds I had gone from Hero to Heel, from Boatman to Bozo. My river dance had turned from a ballet into vaudeville.