-In 1994, my friend’s father applied for a permit to whitewater raft the Colorado River. Sixteen years later, his name finally reached the top of the waiting list. When my buddy asked me if wanted to join the adventure he and his dad were planning, my first response was, “Absolutely…not.” After all, I’d never been camping, I hate the outdoors, and there’s no way I could survive for long without cell or Internet service. But after being subjected to weeks of pleading, cajoling, and taunting, I finally succumbed and agreed to go. And go I did. Earlier this month, I actually spent nine nights and ten days in the Grand Canyon. When asked to describe the trip upon my return, I was at such a loss for words that I had to create a new one – “epiculous.” Yes, the trip was both epic and ridiculous. I survived. But rest assured, I will never go outside ever again.

-This was a privately organized trip with no professionals or tour guides, just a handful of hardcore outdoorsmen who invited their friends to join and essentially serve as human ballast. There were sixteen people and four rafts total. We set up camp and cooked for ourselves every night, and broke everything down and rigged the boats every morning. As a hardcore indoorsman, I brought nothing to the table except witty banter and obsessive compulsiveness. I quickly learned my place. I could not help with rowing, knot-tying, or scouting rapids, but I did have four different types of Purell handy at all times.

-Since our rafts were each fairly large, it was unlikely that one would capsize during a rapid. Nonetheless, every single thing on board needed to be secured just in case. The number of straps and ropes and carabiners was astounding, and tying everything up took forever. Plus, between the sun, the corrosive river, and the sand, your fingers soon begin to split open, making handling the straps extremely painful. After about a week, though, you become desensitized to the pain and embrace the system. I even began to have dreams about life jackets and straps and ropes – like some kind of aquatic dominatrix.

-Bathing on a trip like this is another adventure. Here’s the protocol: get ass-naked, dive into the ice-cold river, come out, lather up with soap, dive back into the water and rinse, then run out before you freeze to death. It took me until day four before I finally worked up the nerve to do it. I stripped down, dove in, and promptly dislocated my shoulder. As I mentioned in Ruminations #161, I first injured my shoulder at a wedding last year. Since then, it has popped out twice more during what I can only describe as two of my more memorable one-night stands. Luckily, two of the guys on the trip were doctors, and after my shoulder popped back in on its own, they fashioned a sling out of one of the straps from the boat. When I finally returned to our tent, my buddy Rob was shocked to see what had happened. “Didn’t you hear me screaming in pain?” I asked. “Sure,” Rob replied, “but I just figured the water is really cold and you’re a pussy.” Thanks, pal.