ALONG THE WAY

Riding the RAPIDS on the COLORADO RIVER

Transforms A Doubting Mother in a ROLE REVERSAL

THE INVITATION CAME ON AN UNBEARABLY hot summer day. “Hey, Mom, how would you like to take a five-day raft trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon? It’ll be great; you just hike 10 miles from the South Rim down to Phantom Ranch and join the expedition mid-way. Some passengers are getting off, so you’ll get a great discount. And — I’ll be your guide!”

Hmm, five days and 100 miles to Whitmore Wash over some of the world’s most challenging white water — with my firstborn at the helm. The first part sounded intriguing; the second, downright scary.

Adventure vacations mean we trust our well-being to the expertise and competence of a professional guide. But what if that guide is your grown-up offspring? Would you entrust your life on a rock-climb to someone who couldn’t set a table but now would set a piton from which you would be suspended 100 feet? Might you think twice about skydiving with someone who would pack your parachute when he or she never learned to fold laundry? Or would you feel confident bungee-jumping if your pride and joy, who barely passed physics, calculated the length of your cord? And now, would I entrust life and limb over Lava Falls Rapid to my 28-year-old daughter who spent much of her young life in stitches, splints and casts resulting from sports-related accidents?

Heather rode her tricycle into a barbed-wire fence, which left a broad scar on her thigh as a lifelong reminder. Now, rafting through the Grand Canyon represented the realization of her desire for an exciting outdoor career.

Her love for the Colorado River was born at its headwaters in the Colorado Rockies, where we spent her childhood summers. We’d walk along the river collecting rocks and wildflowers. While other girls dressed dolls, she coaxed gray jays to eat from her hand. Now she wanted to share her experience and love for the grandest of canyons where her summers were a constant cycle of trips from Lee’s Ferry to Lake Mead. I wondered how she could make this trip again and again and never tire of the river, the Canyon, the heat, the people and the lack of physical comforts. She would teach me.

My hike down Bright Angel Trail began before dawn with these words from the guide: “People die on this trail. Indian Gardens is as far as most hikers go in a day; no one should hike to Phantom Ranch unless they’ve made arrangements for the night. You’ll hike the Devil’s Corkscrew, a stretch of narrow switchbacks with a rock wall on one side and sheer drop on the other. Expect no shade or water.”

Okay, so this wasn’t a stroll. After 6 miles, my knees began to tremble and buckle. At a brief stop, we encountered uphill hikers who asked if we were on our way to meet the Wilderness River Adventure trip they just left. Discovering I was Heather’s mother, they exclaimed, “Oh, she’s awesome!”

Awesome? I considered Heather “cute,” “smart,” even “sweet” upon occasion — but “awesome?” My adult child sounded like a stranger.

On my last legs when I finally joined the expedition, I greeted my daughter with a hug and a whimper and rolled unceremoniously into the security of the rubber raft. I knew I was more than 10 miles out of my element.

Too exhausted to enjoy the scenery, I watched Heather work. Before the raft entered white water, her eyes intently scanned the river, the patterns made by rock and current. Then her gaze touched each passenger, looking for signs of fear or panic. When our eyes met, she smiled, and in that instant, our roles of mother and daughter, protector and charge, reversed.

The next morning, with Granite and Hermit rapids behind us, we donned wet-gear in preparation for the treacherous Crystal. The river, looking like chocolate milk due to recent rains, boiled around us while waves of 50-degree water washed over us. Heather stood to get a better view, and I stifled a maternal command for her to “Sit down!” With a mixture of fear, pride and admiration, I watched her gun the motor’s throttle, giving it just the right thrust to propel us through the hazardous rapid.

After four days, I longed for a hot bath and crisp sheets; Heather desired neither. A quick dip in icy water and a good shaking of her sleeping bag were enough.

Near the end of our journey, we reached Lava Falls, a complicated, thundering maelstrom. Our group nervously watched another raft tilt, nearly spilling its occupants into the dangerous water. With a serious expression Heather asked, “Okay, anyone want to skip this one?” No one stepped forward. Instead, we boarded the raft and plunged down Lava Falls. Soaked and exhilarated, we cheered for ourselves and for our trustworthy guide — my daughter.