The trip was supposed to mark our thirtieth birthdays. It still does, I guess. But I’m the only one here to celebrate.
Maybe I could’ve wrangled a refund if I’d explained what happened. I must have picked up the phone half a dozen times to call. Because I really wasn’t in the mood for an adventure anymore. And I could have used the four thousand dollars back in my account. But between the big red letters on the Rapids Unlimited website FAQ page statingAbsolutely no refunds for multi-day float tripsand the churn in my gut when I thought about what it would mean to cancel, I finally sent an email asking if I could switch to the women’s retreat. The cost was about the same; a five-day trip for one on the Middle Fork of the Garnet versus a three-day on the Lower Fork for two.
I didn’t offer a reason for the request to swap. And the only question the woman asked was whether I’d like a complimentary swim shirt to make up for the small price difference.
I said no.
Inside the creamy white envelope that arrived in the mail a week later, I got my official packing list and a description of the trip:We’re pleased to welcome you on an exclusive, unforgettable, ladies-only adventure on the Garnet River. Perfect for sisters, friends, and solo travelers! Disconnect from the hustle and bustle! Reconnect with your inner spark while enjoying five days of home-cooked meals and the thrill of world-class whitewater on the River at the End of the World.
It was almost identical to the letter that Parker and I had received, except this one didn’t promisethree days with your sweetheart in the great outdoors.
“Kaiaaaaa! Girl, it’s go time!” Macy—or Gracie—calls right next to my ear, laughing.
I startle against the seatbelt where the warm metal sticks to the skin peeking beneath my crop top and blink at the open doorway. All of the other women are already outside, stretching in the late-afternoon sun and gushing over the towering canyon walls rising up from the launch point.
A second dusty ten-passenger van lurches to a halt beside us, spitting out two more guides wearing bright green quick-dry shirts—both men—along with another load of women, bubbling with excitement that they’ve finally made it to the remote put-in on the Middle Fork of the Garnet.
Someone starts whistling a meandering song I don’t recognize, with a surprising amount of skill.
I sigh, paste on a smile, and peel my thighs from the vinyl bench seat, shooing my dark thoughts away like a swarm of gnats. They’ll be back, but I’ve gotten better at sending them scattering, if only for a few moments.
I blink in the sunlight, breathing deep when the smell of sunbaked pine wafts inside the vehicle, drawing me out of the empty van. Despite the dust, the air feels squeaky clean,and I get my first glimpse of the majestic river, sparkling just beyond the primitive road.
“Everybody, grab your dry bags out of the cage!” Macy points to the rusty white box at the front of the second van’s raft trailer. Then she stops in her tracks and smacks herself on the forehead playfully, sending her thick blonde ponytail bouncing. “Hold on, hold on!” she calls to the women from the second van, who are already bustling around the loaded cage. “I haven’t even met some of y’all in van two! We need to do introductions again! I’m Macy, and this is Gracie.” Her big brown eyes crinkle as she grabs the other female guide by the arm and pulls her into a bear hug. “And yeah, our names rhyme, but we’re not twins or anything. Although she might as well be my sister by this point. We’re both seniors at the University of Idaho, we’re both studying recreation therapy, and we’ve both worked at Rapids Unlimited every summer for the last four years. So … we’re the senior staff.”
“Recreation therapy?” someone asks.
Macy’s grin softens. “Using outdoor activities to help people heal. Veterans, kids with trauma, stuff like that.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I started guiding to pay for school, but it turns out this”—she gestures to the canyon around us—“isn’t just fun. It’s medicine. There’s nothing like a Class-Four rapid to get you out of your head.”
I think about that note I got in the mail, the promise that I’d “find” myself again out here, and cringe a little. Recreation therapy sounds like a nice idea, but I’m not banking on any miracles. I tried hot yoga and meditation already, and neither touched the wreckage in my heart. My body can sweat and breathe deep all it wants, but it’s still just a body. It’s physical, just like this adventure. How much could a river float actually heal somebody?
It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find healing, anyway.
I’m here for Parker.
Gracie smiles. “I’m counting Macy’s spiel as my intro, too. We’re pretty much the same person, except I like Twizzlers and she likes those disgusting Red Vines.” She laughs and looks expectantly at one of the male guides, like it’s his turn to take the baton.
Right on cue, he stops fiddling with a strap on the raft and turns to face the group. “Senior staff, my ass! I’m about ten years older than both of you girls.”
I raise an eyebrow. That makes him my age, although I wouldn’t have guessed it. All the river guides have the same weathered look: wind-chapped skin, sun-bleached hair, scraped-up shins, and that telltale tan line around their eyes in the shape of sunglasses.
Gracie’s smile widens. “You’ve only been herethreesummers, though. Everybody, this is Josh, a.k.a. ‘River Jesus.’ I know this trip is a women’s retreat, but we appreciate the muscle!”
The other women titter as River Jesus—Josh—crosses his arms over his impressively muscled chest and rises to his full height—at least six foot two. It’s pretty obvious how he’s earned the nickname when he does a little toss of his sun-bleached brown, shoulder-length hair and pats his full beard with a waggle of one bushy eyebrow.
“Lord have mercy,” murmurs a stout middle-aged woman with a severe auburn bob. She lifts the collar of her long-sleeved PALM BEACH swim shirt and fans it as if to cool herself.
Macy snorts. “Oh, don’t give him a bigger ego than he’s already got.”
A sprinkling of laughter dissolves into shrieks as a bulky bin comes toppling over the stack of rafts on the trailer, nearly hitting Josh in the head before landing at his feet.
Whoever was whistling that tune in the background stops abruptly.
“Holy shit!” Josh cries, leaping forward to snatch at the contents of the cooler that’s just burst open on the ground. An array of bagged deli meats and cheeses, tortillas, and veggies spills out onto the dirt, scattered among ice cubes.
We all look up at the raft atop the trailer, where the second male guide with bleached-blond hair stands with his mouth hanging slightly open. “Sorry, sorry, I was just trying to get the coolers down so we could have a snack before we get on the river, and I tripped—”
“Over yourflip-flops?” Josh snaps.