Ruby Horsethief -- Colorado River

I rafted down Ruby Horsethief this weekend. I use the term "rafting" rather loosely, as the image of intrepid adventure it summons to mind is not quite comparable to the event that actually transpired. The amount of rapids we encountered could be counted on my two hands. And probably measured with them as well, to be perfectly frank.The wind could be a bit brisk, the sun a tad bright, and the water was uncomfortably chilly, but these were the most harrowing aspects of our dawdling downriver.

Our arduous weekend of leisure commenced promptly Friday morning. My alarm blared and I lurched out of bed at my usual ungodly hour of four, taught a yoga flow class to a whopping class of three, and nearly flew down Main Street on my blue bicycle to meet my ride to the Kelleher's. Panting and wheezing, I stumbled into the kitchen, reveling in my timeliness.

To my chagrin, Kristy was already sitting in dining room, quite settled at the table and petting the most desperate of the two cats.

"I'm here!" she called out cheerfully. "Didn't want to startle you."

 Feeling a little sheepish about bumbling back late, I collected my borrowed dry bag with my clothes, camera, phone, tent, sleeping bag, and pad, and trundled off to her car. The thing I dislike the most about having only a bicycle to my name is that I must constantly ask for rides when I know I can't bike there in time. I have a lovely group of friends, so procuring the ride is rarely a challenge -- but I feel terrible indeed when someone has to wait on me.

Kristy is fabulous. Absolutely, undeniably splendid in so many which-ways. As Janet put it, she is able to effectively combine the fun-loving/adventure seeking qualities of a child with the maturity/responsibility of an adult.  This seems to be a very complicated maneuver to master, but it is now inscribed on my intimidating "to do" list. Right underneath, "learn to unicycle", and "keep respectable nails for an entire 24 hours."

We pulled into the Kelleher's driveway a few minutes before 8:00, and I caught my first glimpse of our transportation.

My roommate and her family are avid rafters -- and not merely of the dawdling and drinking description . Janet is actually looking into a river ranger job in the Grand Canyon, and John and Cathy have been rafting technical whitewater for decades. John and Cathy took the top boat. The rest of us lot went back and forth between the middle boat and the yellow boat (fondly nicknamed, "the banana boat". Many very mature jokes were made regarding the shape of the pontoons)

After a final cup of coffee, a frantic scan for the items we were sure we'd left behind, and a forlorn parting with toilets that flush, we piled into two cars (one to be used as a shuttle and the other to tow the rafts), and set off to the put in.

Note that there is a rule about drinking responsibly. Rafters seem to be a pretty conscientious lot, but I'm not sure if they've read that far down on the Safety Guidelines sections. Either that, or the interpretation can be exceedingly broad. 

Rudy is my roommate's son and hands down the coolest twelve-year-old I've ever met.

Janet is a river boss. I would say river god, but that brings to mind pansy Greek deities getting all uptight over frivolities. Janet is far too badass for that rubbish.

After turning the raft into a veritable floating merry-go-round (if I were not possessed with such a generous nature, I could have charged a fee, as there wasn't another soul amongst us 45 who managed to turn as many unintentional circles as I), I finally somewhat mastered the "bicycle stroke". Which is nothing like riding a bicycle, lest my fellow cyclists mistakenly think they have an advantage.

After setting up the shuttle and loading the rafts (Janet packs a raft with as much prowess as Dave loads a dishwasher), like a group of slightly more buoyant lemmings, we pushed off into the meandering, shallow Colorado River.

Our routine for the next few hours went something like this:

Janet effortlessly steers us straight down the river at a ponderous but persistent pace.

We decide we're rather bored with this straight-down-the-river nonsense, so I gallantly take up the oars and quickly wear myself out spinning us in stellar circles. However, as the rest of the company begins to overtake us, the novelty of rafting merry-go-round style rapidly loses its charm. Kristy snags the oars from my fatigued arms.

With Kristy in the captain's seat, we enjoy a masterful diagonal pattern, akin to what I learned in my beginning dressage lessons when you had to steer the horse across the arena in a diagonal to change directions and switch leads. I find this method of travel nostalgic and sip a hard cider and absorb the rapidly changing scenery as the boat points from bank to bank.

I will let you imagine the chaos that ensued when we both took the oars.

Janet was far too patient with her flailing crew. She compensated for our consummate lack of coordination by occasionally rowing with us and throwing her weight into the oar we seemed to have deemed of trivial consequence, and thus, not worth our bother. Having aligned us with the current, she would do her best to direct us with commands of "River right!" and "River left!" but with limited success.

It was during one of my breaks that I learned my first rule about river rafting.

Do not bring glass containers on the raft.

*Ahem*

DO NOT bring glass containers on the raft.

Don't say no one warned you.

I rarely purchase alcohol, and when I do, it's generally in small quantities to share with someone else. However, I knew that this weekend would consist of drinking, rafting, drinking, and a wee bit of drunken hiking. During my pre-drinking college years, I remember feeling out of place at parties with my apologetic cup of water. In order to avoid the dreaded awkwardness (and because I do enjoy alcohol), I proudly bought myself a box of 12 hard ciders. I didn't give the glass bottles a second thought. I bought booze. I bought loads of booze. For a spendthrift, twelve bottles of cider is an extravagant splurge, and I was indulging in the glory of having been able to manipulate my budget enough to afford my ticket to a less awkward rafting trip.

As you may have guessed, this joy was nearly as ephemeral as my straight lines down the river.

"You brought glass on the river?" many askance, incredulous voices piped up. I lowered my cider in embarrassment.

"Yeah... does anyone have an opener? I didn't think to bring one."

"You brought glass on the river?" the voices repeated, as though they needed time to thoroughly process my complete stupidity.

"Hey!" Janet rallied to my defense, "This is her first time. She didn't know."

"Didn't know?"

"You don't bring glass on the river because it can break and puncture the bottom of the raft." Janet explained with indomitable forbearance. "But the bottom of this raft is metal, so it doesn't even matter that much. Don't worry about it. Next time bring cans."

Hence, every time I asked someone to open my cider for me, I turned a tad red as there was always at least one voice chastising from a glass-free raft, "You brought glass on the river?"

I drank far less than I thought I would.

Our lunch log

Raft yoga -- half plank

Raft yoga -- Side plank

I took my turn in the banana boat and was pleasantly surprised to find it significantly easier to maneuver. This could be because the person in the front does all the steering, and I always sat in the back. Or it could be because I was getting better at rafting. I choose to believe the latter.

Raft yoga -- three-legged down dog

Raft yoga -- Prasarita with a twist

The first night was spent setting up camp. I quickly erected my tiny tent and ran off to see if anyone else needed help. However, this group of rafters was admirably efficient, and the riverbank was soon speckled with tents without any help from the girl who brought glass on the river.

My tent and marvelous view

Other than tents and cooking facilities, a dark ominous structure had been pitched down near the river. It was introduced to me as "The Groover, " and I was far from happy to make its acquaintance. I was told that during rafting trips, one pisses in the river and craps in the groover. I took one look at this foreboding figure and my intestines twisted up into an angry ball of resistance. Something about this makeshift outhouse made me think of a Dementer from the Harry Potter films. If I used its humble facilities, I feared losing my soul through its putrid toilet seat.

 

The first night was cold. The wind battered my Eureka tent hour after hour, and I lay wide awake inside, fretting and anxious. I've been camping before, but this was my first time alone in a tent. I would have been very appreciative if one of the tiny dogs --

-- 

-- had wandered into the tent and spent the night with me. In my delirium, I imagined them successfully fending off many a river beast and the Groover's insidious Dementor. Cuteness conquers all.

After a couple of hours of unpleasant, "why can't I go to sleep?" ing and "is that the wind or the sound of a very large carnivorous river beast?" ing, I drifted off until four. Which is exponentially more ungodly on a rafting trip, because no one else is awake, so you are forced to lie still in the cold in your tent until you hear the welcome sound of tents being zipped up.

The wind abated for a few moments, and then picked up again with full fury, determined to spoil our breakfast by extinguishing our cooking fires and making us so cold that we filled up on coffee, anyway. I made a sad looking lot of peanut butter banana pancakes, but the mountain of gooey crumbs had magnificent flavor, so my crushed culinary pride was somewhat assuaged.

After breakfast dishes had been cleaned and set to dry, we lathered up with sunscreen, topped off our water bottles, and set out on our morning jaunt into Mee Canyon.

There were several casualties during this trip. One fellow busted his knee whilst using the Groover (I knew it was dangerous). One woman sprained her ankle (she can't quite remember when or how this happened). Rudy tripped and fell on his face and ended up with an epic scratch. Whenever asked, "What happened to your face?" Rudy was instructed to reply, "I like to party." I don't believe this joke ever got old.

Hike partner yoga

Hike partner yoga

The rest of the day was filled with games, conversation, and photography. I haven't been so relaxed in a good while. There's something magical about being unable to use phones or 3G for a weekend. There's a stillness to be found when you know you're unreachable.

This is the fellow responsible for organizing the trip. Wish I had the time to beg a spot on a few more floats, but my June 5th deadline is looming in the near future. I interviewed him for my project and he was a first-class sport, putting up with me and what two harder lemonades do to my short-term memory. It was only after we finished the interview that I realized I hadn't pushed the record button. Ach. C'est la vie. 

We set off early the next morning, and valiantly oared against the wind most of the morning and into the afternoon.

All in all, it was a grand excursion, and I feel like it helped get me ready for my next volunteer adventure by forcing me to interact with a group of complete strangers. I feel confident and ready. Ireland and George in 29 days!