A Rogue Wave, One Cup of Angel Wings and Lil’ Rodeo In The Grand Canyon

(Note: This story takes place in the Grand Canyon, on a rafting trip down the Colorado River. Our goal? 30 days in the wilderness, unplugged from humanity, plugged into the electrical socket of nature. Who? A bunch of mavericks. We were green, as the river, including some of the ore’s men who’d never rowed before, alongside some questionably sane veterans of the untamable river and colorful chaos. What did we have to look forward to? Lava…the man-eating rapid that chows full-sized school buses for breakfast, has concrete walls that slap you in the face like a rogue wave, and cheese grater rocks–avoid the cheese grater rocks at all costs… yeah that one.)

Time was a fluid concept in the canyon, measured by the sun's arc across the sky, not by the ticking of a clock. It was somewhere around noon high, or maybe three low – hard to say when you didn’t own a wristwatch. 30 days of watching the sun rise and fall had weathered me like the canyon walls themselves, those titans rising like ancient gods, their shadows casting a spell of awe and wonder. My skin was leather, tanned by ice, rain, wind, and the relentless desert sun.

It was January, for chrissakes, but down here on the canyon floor, the cactus were already blooming. A thousand feet above, a blizzard raged, a white fury over a barren landscape. But we knew nothing of this in the serpentine embrace of the Colorado River. Was this a pilgrimage, a baptism, or just a really wild ride?

We'd ridden a rollercoaster of emotions by this point, tasted the highs and lows of river life. But everything we'd experienced, every rapid navigated, every shiver and sunburn, had prepared us for this moment: Lava Falls, a roaring beast, a watery dragon guarding the gateway to the unknown.

Kyle, the fearless captain of the Emma Dean (in homage to John Wesley Powell), began to sing. Not just any song, but a Bob Marley tune we'd all heard a hundred times before. Yet today, staring into the glittering face of the devil herself, those familiar lyrics gained new meaning. It started as a faint mumble, his voice cracking, a telltale sign of the fear coursing beneath his bravado.

"Shit. He's shown his cards," I thought, a flicker of doubt casting a shadow over his usual confidence. Our trusted leader, the man who'd navigated us through countless rapids, was scared. And we knew it.

With morale teetering on the edge, we joined in, our voices a chorus of defiance against the fear that threatened to consume us. "Singing don't worry, about a thing..." The words echoed through the canyon, a fragile shield against the roaring beast ahead. Kyle, now fully embracing the vulnerability, screamed at the top of his lungs, "...every little thing is gonna be alright!" We followed suit, our voices reverberating like a war drum, summoning a primal courage to face the battle ahead.

Russ, our stoic companion, went first in his raft, the "Torpedo." It was a fitting name for the indestructible vessel, a gray missile slicing through the water, a Cadillac on the open river. Russ was the undisputed captain of the Torpedo, his confidence unshakeable, his spirit unyielding.

We were a flotilla of six boats, fifteen souls bound together by the river's current and the shared pursuit of adventure. We'd gather in eddies, huddled together like a flock of nervous birds, assessing the rapids ahead. After enduring those that left us looking like defeated, wet chihuahuas – all bark and no bite – we'd glance back at Russ.

Invariably, a single ray of sunshine would pierce the clouds, illuminating him like a deity on his throne. He'd ride the waves with a grin, a laughing giant unfazed by the chaos. He'd dissect the sky, his gaze tracing the golden aura of the clouds, while simultaneously maneuvering the boat with a single oar and digging for his trusty plastic bong. A long, unhurried inhale, a plume of smoke against the backdrop of the canyon, and the waters would part as if by magic. He'd emerge from the tormented currents, bone dry, not a drop of water daring to touch him. How did he do it? The low-key audacity of it all was both maddening and inspiring.

But Lava Falls was a different beast. It tossed the Torpedo like a dime in the air, a scene straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. The boat was vertical, defying gravity and logic. How could such a tiny vessel withstand the fury of such a monstrous rapid? Sam, our resident sandbagger, a 5'2" wisp of a woman, swung from the nose of the boat like a goddamn acrobat. Dangling ten feet in the air, she swung from front to back, her tiny body a pendulum taming the 800-pound vessel. She landed back on the bow, her dreadlocks flying like banners of victory, and somehow, miraculously, the Torpedo righted itself. Torpedo: 100, Colorado River: 0. Undefeated.

We were up next.

"Jon, you got this?!" Theresa's voice was tight with fear, her face pale as a ghost.

"Jon, you got this?!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got this," he yelled back, his voice a hollow echo of confidence.

I laughed, a nervous release in the face of the absurd. We were about to tackle this monster in a glorified pool toy, our little raft, the "Lil Rodeo." Were rafts this small even allowed on this section of the river?” No time to worry about that now.

I was the self-proclaimed guinea pig on this vessel, partly because of my insatiable thirst for adventure, and partly because I couldn't bear to see Theresa face this beast alone.

Memories flooded my mind – days blurred by laughter, fear, and the endless songs we'd sung to keep our spirits high. The rapids that the Torpedo devoured like a pebble in a monster truck's wheel were tsunamis in our tiny raft. While others stayed dry, we bailed water, our bodies soaked, our knuckles raw.

On days when icicles hung from our helmets, we'd fueled our resilience with secret stashes of chocolate and jet-boiled hot chocolate spiked with Jack Daniels to rectify our chattering teeth. It was the kind of camaraderie that forged bonds stronger than any rapid, a testament to the power of shared experience and a healthy dose of absurdity.

We were facing down a monster, a watery behemoth that could swallow us whole. The odds were stacked against us, but surrender wasn't an option. I closed my eyes, summoning every ounce of bravado, every fiber of my being, and pretended, with a wild, desperate hope, that we had this.

The closer we got, the louder we screamed, our voices a fragile shield against the roar of the approaching beast. But halfway through the first wave, the sinking realization hit: we were going down. Our war song dissolved into a gurgling silence as we were enveloped in a churning mass of whitewater. Bubbles swirled around us, a champagne supernova of chaos. I couldn't tell up from down, my body tossed and turned like a ragdoll in a washing machine.

"Stay calm, stay calm," I chanted to myself, clawing my way to the surface, gasping for air.

"Where's Jon?! Where's Jon?!" Theresa's voice was a frantic cry in the maelstrom.

"Keep swimming, T!" I yelled back, my voice barely audible above the roar.

Like two rubber duckies caught in a hurricane, we paddled towards the safety raft. Nic, our guardian angel, hauled me aboard, his face a mixture of fear, awe, and relief.

Jon emerged soon after, clinging to the overturned Lil Rodeo like a cowboy wrestling a runaway steer. The world seemed to shimmer with a renewed vibrancy, the sun a spotlight on our improbable survival.

We didn't speak, words rendered unnecessary by the shared experience, the unspoken bond forged in the crucible of fear and exhilaration. We'd touched the face of death and emerged, blinking, into the light on angel’s wings. Was this a glimpse into the heart of nature, or a brush with the divine? Time lost all context as we rode the remaining rapids with an otherworldly serenity, carried by the current and the knowledge that we'd been granted another breath.

Stay wild, my friends,

Rita